


The Starlight I See

by MaplePaizley, thewhiskerydragon



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/M, Gen, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13163952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhiskerydragon/pseuds/thewhiskerydragon
Summary: ~ keeping up with the kuragins ~





	1. Decorum

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! We've been having so much fun with our other piece 'Either Very Clever Or Very Stupid' that we decided to keep writing! 
> 
> This is a collection of Modern AU one shots. They take place in the same modern AU as EVCOVS, but you don't have to have read that to follow along! 
> 
> This chapter features references to drinking/ swearing/ attempted assault (but nothing graphic)

Hélène popped the question on a humid September afternoon.

She and Fedya had thrown the windows open in hopes of coaxing in a late-summer breeze, but her bedroom was still unbearably hot, and so they had retreated downstairs to the living room where the temperature was only marginally more tolerable. The fan was turned on at full blast, some crappy rerun was blaring on the TV screen, and the air hung sticky with the smell of their own sweat and misery. It wasn’t right, she told herself, for it to be so warm at this time of year, but Fedya, being Fedya, had reassured her that it was perfectly normal and had in fact, been this hot every year since she moved out to Moscow, and _God_ , how had she not noticed this already?

But she was a Kuragin and by nature enjoyed complaining, no matter how much it grated on his nerves.

“We should go do something,” she muttered. “I’m so bored.”

“Well, what do you _want_ to do?”

Hélène made a noise in the back of her mouth that was intended to sound something like, _I don’t know_.

Fedya rolled his eyes. “That’s helpful.”

“It’s more like what I _don’t_ want to do,” she grumbled. When he didn’t respond, she turned to face him with an irritable look. “Well, what do _you_ want to do?”

“Dunno. We could always go to last period,” Fedya suggested.

“Don’t be stupid. Not being in school is one of the few things that I don’t _not_ enjoy.”

“That’s too many negatives in one sentence,” he said. “You should go to English once in a while.”

“Shut up.” They lapsed into comfortable silence for a few minutes until Hélène prodded him with her foot. “Fedya?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still bored.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, do you know that?” He stood up, stretching his arms above his head and twisting from side to side until his spine cracked. “God, I’m too young to be this stiff.”

“You’re an old fart.”

Fedya rolled his shoulders and began to meander around the room. He stopped by the side-table that ran along the wall opposite the couch.

“Looking for something?”

“No, just stretching.”

Hélène rolled her eyes. “It’s not like you haven’t already been here a million times. Has your memory gotten that bad that you need to re-familiarize yourself with your surroundings every five minutes? You really are an old man, Fed, I swear—”

“This is new. What is it?” he said suddenly, his back turned to her.

“What’s what? I don’t have x-ray vision.”

He picked something off the table and walked back over to the couch, dangling it in front of her face. It was a tiny white card, embossed and lettered with metallic silver ink. “What is _this_?”

“Speaking of things I don’t want to do,” she grumbled, and snatched it back, putting it out of his reach on the coffee table. “It’s my invitation to a debutante ball.”

“A what?”

“A debutante ball,” she said, dangling upside-down off the couch until all the blood rushed to her head. “It’s so lame. They fly us all out to New York to a fancy hotel and parade women around like show ponies. It’s a big deal to my dad though, so I don’t think I can get out of this one.”

Fedya frowned. “So what’s the point?”

Hélène grimaced. “It’s your introduction to high society. Like a debut.”

Fedya’s eyes twinkled with mirth. Hélène barely resisted the urge to slap him upside the head. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t you dare laugh at this,” she grumbled.

But Fedya did so anyway, tossing his head back and giggling like a loon. Hélène gave into the urge and swatted him across the knee. “Oh my God, Lena, your family is _ridiculous_.”

“I _hate_ you,” she snarled, and launched herself at him. Fedya easily fended her off with one hand, which only served to anger her further. “Fight me, you coward!”

“That’s very improper of a high-society lady such as yourself,” he said, and though he was clearly trying to maintain a level tone, he failed miserably, laughing even harder as she rolled off the sofa and onto the floor.

“You’re a sadist,” she said, her voice muffled by the rug.

Fedya shrugged and went slack against the sofa. “It’s your fault for giving me such good material to work with.”

She rolled onto her back, glaring at him. “It’s not _that_ embarrassing.”

Fedya snickered. “It absolutely is, and you know it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! All the time I could have spent laughing at you, totally wasted.”

Hélène crossed her arms self-consciously. She felt her face burning hotly under his stare. “I was gonna bring it up later actually.”

“Why? Because you _wanted_ me to laugh at you?”

“I need to take a date. Could you stop being an asshole for one night and go with me?”

His smile vanished, replaced by a blank look. “Wait, seriously?”

“I’m not gonna repeat myself.”

“Why do you need a date?”

“They’re called escorts, technically.”

Fedya crossed his arms. “Okay. Why do you need an _escort_? Can’t walk in heels on your own or something?”

“There’s dancing. Like, old-school dancing. Like, waltzing.”

He snorted. “God, this is a gift that keeps giving.”

“This is serious!” she snapped. “Look, it’s just one night of dressing fancy and all you have to do is dance with me and help ‘present’ me.”

“ _Present_ you? What is this, a dog show?”

Hélène sighed. “You know my dad. He totally buys into all of this misogynistic, old-society crap. I think the idea of polite young ladies in white with gentlemen is, like, soothing for him.”  

Fedya blinked. “But why me?”

“‘ _Why me_ ’?” she scoffed. “Because you’re the least-insufferable guy I know.”

Fedya seemed to have recovered from his initial surprise. He crossed his arms. “I’m touched, Lena, truly.”

“So?” she snapped.

“So?”

“Will you come or not?”

Fedya leaned back in his seat, a wicked smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “I think you might have to convince me first.”

“ _Convince_ you?” Hélène said. She lobbed a pillow at him. “God, you’ve got some nerve, you prick.”

Fedya held a hand over his heart in mock-affront. “ _Decorum_ , Hélène.”

“Never mind,” she muttered, standing up to walk away.

“Hey,” Fedya said, catching her wrist, “of course I’ll go with you. It sounds like fun.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying, Lena. We’ll dance, we’ll get some drinks, and we’ll scandalize some stiff old people.”

Hélène pressed her lips into a thin line. “My father’s going to be there. Did I mention that?”

Fedya’s face went tight. “Ah.” She worried for a moment that he might balk, but his expression softened not even a moment later and he said, “Well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

“Muddling your metaphors a little there?”

He shrugged. “Maybe we both need to go to English class."

“You’re a good friend.”

“Aren’t I just?” he said.

“Jesus,” Hélène said, rolling her eyes. “How does your massive head even fit through the doorway?”

Another fit of laughter seized him all of a sudden, this one wilder and louder than the first. Hélène raised an eyebrow in bewilderment. “I know I’m witty, but it wasn’t _that_ funny.”

“It’s just…it’s just,” Fedya wheezed, wiping away tears as a wicked smile curled his mouth. “Oh my God. I just realized…does this mean Anatole is gonna have to do all of this as well when he’s your age?”

Hélène stared at the ceiling blankly. “Jesus Christ. I hope not.”

* * *

“Ah,” Vasily said with a smile as Hélène padded into his office. “There’s my little debutante.”

“What did you call me for?”

“I have some exciting news for you.”

She tried to keep her face from falling flat. Knowing her father, it would either be something very good or very bad, and nothing in between. “About the ball?”

“Yes. I’ve made some new arrangements for you. Ones that I believe you’ll be pleased with.”

Oh, dear Lord. “Oh?”

“Boris Drubetskoy will be escorting you.”

Hélène’s jaw nearly swung open in shock. “ _Boris_?”

Vasily was clearly disappointed by her reaction, but she didn’t quite have the mental fortitude to muster up any regret. “The two of you seemed to get along very well last year.”

“Papa, you can’t be serious.”

“I am very serious, Elena. Do _not_ screw this up for me.”

“For _you_? I’m the one who has to tolerate him all night.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he tsked disapprovingly. “It’s one night that may have very serious repercussions on the rest of your life. I’m expecting you to behave like a proper young lady.”

“But I’ve already invited Fedya,” she said through clenched teeth. “I asked him a _month_ ago and he agreed to escort me, Papa. He’s rented a tux and everything, you can’t just—”

“Elena,” Vasily said in a tone that clearly indicated that she was to drop the matter unless she wanted to make him angry, “that’s enough. I’ve already accepted the offer on your behalf.”

Hélène’s jaw swung open in outrage. She searched for words, but none came, only panicked blankness. “But why Boris?” she managed.

“He’s a well-respected, handsome young man. I thought you would be thrilled.”

“So is Fedya.”

Vasily gave her a tight smile. “I don’t think a debutante ball is Fedya’s place, princess. I’m sure you would just make him feel uncomfortable.”

“You don’t know him well enough to say that.”

“I know everything about him that I need to.”

“Ippolit said that some girls take two escorts. Surely—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll offend Boris.”

Hélène crossed her arms. “I couldn’t care less if Boris is offended,” she muttered mutinously under her breath.

“ _Enough,_ Elena,” Vasily snapped. “Boris will be your _only_ escort to the ball. This discussion is over. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. Mrs. Mikhailovna is coming next week to escort you to your dress fitting. You are to be on your best behavior. Am I understood?”

Hélène dug her nails into her palms, swallowing her anger. “Yes, Papa.”

“That’s a good girl. Now, run along. I have work to do.”

* * *

Hélène was beginning to notice a trend with her father’s associates: the size of their cars was always proportional to the size of their egos, so it came as no surprise to her when Mrs. Mikhailovna pulled up in the driveway in a luxury SUV. She was a woman of expensive taste, and it was almost impressive how quickly she had blown through her alimony money.

Mrs. Mikhailovna’s life was sad to say the least, and despite her insufferable personality, Hélène couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. The story changed a little every time she heard it, but the gist remained the same: Anna Mikhailovna, born into a comfortably upper-middle-class family, had married into a filthy rich New York family, had Boris, and divorced not long afterwards. She and Vasily had seemingly stuck together since they had met in college, and no sooner had the Kuragins relocated to Moscow than Mrs. Mikhailovna followed on their coattails. It struck Hélène as a little odd that she had kept the “Mrs.” part of her name after her husband had left her, but then again, everything she did seemed to be in an effort of preserving her high-society life, even on a high school teacher’s salary. Hélène personally couldn’t stand her—she was a schmoozer to the core, but she was a friend of Vasily’s and consequently one of the few people in the world she was required to be polite to.

“Ah, Elena!” she said, clambering out of her car. Mrs. Mikhailovna seemed to have grown even shorter and more matronly-looking since last summer when Hélène had seen her at her father’s birthday party in Martha’s Vineyard. She’d definitely had her hair lightened and gotten some work done on her face.

“Hi, Mrs. Mikhailovna,” said Hélène.

“Oh, no need to be so formal. Call me Anna, darling. Now let me take a look at you.” She fumbled around in her handbag to retrieve her glasses. “ My God, you’ve gotten so tall. It’s so wonderful to see you again. Is your father home?”

“No, he flew out to the city this morning.”

“Oh, what a shame. I was hoping to speak to him about the event.”

Hélène raised an eyebrow. “Anything I can help with?”

“I’m doing the helping today, dearie.” At her confused expression, Mrs. Mikhailovna added, “Did he not tell you? I’m taking you to your dress fitting!”

“Oh, he did mention that. It slipped my mind completely. You really don’t need to,” Hélène said as Mrs. Mikhailovna steered her towards the car with a hand on her forearm.

“After everything your father has done for me and my Boris, Elena, really, it’s the least I can do. And I’ve always wanted a daughter to dote over and go dress-shopping with. It means so much to be helping you today.”

Hélène shot her an amused grin. “Oh?”

“A girl needs a mother, Elena. Especially for an event as important as this one.” She took Hélène’s hand in her own, squeezing gently. “Aline would be so proud of you.”

Hélène’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach even as a sliver of pride gripped her heart. “I hope so.”

“I know she would. Look at yourself. You’re such a smart young lady. And beautiful too! I’d be lucky to call you my daughter. But God only knows that you can’t be blessed with _two_ perfect children.”

“I suppose that explains my brothers, then,” she jested, and Mrs. Mikhailovna laughed.

“Oh, you crack me up, Elena! ”

Hélène gave her a tight smile. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Mi— _Anna_.”

Mrs. Mikhailovna gave her a look that made it all too clear that she fully agreed.  “Come on, hop in. It’s a long drive to Scherer’s Boutique.” She gestured towards the passenger-side door and Hélène slid into the seat, bracing her handbag between her knees.

Ten minutes later and they had only just made it to the highway. Hélène idly drummed her nails against her legs as the I-50 sped by in an endless blur of green and grey, wishing that the conversation could entail something other than the debutante ball or Mrs. Mikhailovna’s vacation plans. Even outside of school she was still a deathly bore.

“How is Boris doing?” she offered in an attempt to alleviate the monotony of their chat.

“He’s so excited,” said Mrs. Mikhailovna. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you for _days_.”

“How flattering. It’s been too long. I haven’t spoken to him in over a year.”

“Has it really been that long? I swear he’s been thinking about you since your father’s birthday party.” And then: “Are you seeing anyone?”

Hélène thought briefly of Fedya but decided against it. Whatever they had together was not romantic in the slightest and not worth the hassle of mentioning. “No, not currently,” she said, and Mrs. Mikhailovna raised her eyebrows with a grin.

“It’s good to be a woman of discerning taste. When you find the right man it’ll be that much more special.”

“I suppose.”

“I’m getting ahead of myself again, aren’t I? Ah, well, any boy should consider himself lucky to be your escort. I’ve made sure Boris knows that.”

Hélène’s smile was positively simpering. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“It’s true! And just wait until we find your dress!” She leaned over and nudged her shoulder. “Everyone will be speechless. I’m just imagining it now. You’re going to be a knockout, Elena, just you wait and see.”

* * *

The first dress was a monstrous, gaudy concoction of satin and tulle and fake diamonds, more suited for someone of Mrs. Mikhailovna’s age than a seventeen-year-old, and it swallowed Hélène up like some nightmarish explosion of cream and ivory.

Mrs. Mikhailovna’s face lit up as Hélène waddled out of the dressing room. Without the extra few inches of her heels, the hems of the skirt threatened to trip her with every step she took. She huffed in frustration, finally hiking up the hem to her knees, ignoring the horrified gasp behind her.

“It’s awful,” she declared the second she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

“Elena, darling, what are you talking about? It looks wonderful on you.”

As much of a gossip as Mrs. Mikhailovna was, Hélène knew that she knew better than to tattle on her to Vasily. Consequently, and because she was more than a little flustered, she decided to allow herself to be more abrupt, rude even, in her response. “I hate it,” she said calmly. “It’s tacky and it makes me look like a waterlogged Victorian bride.”

Mrs. Mikhailovna sighed heavily. “I suppose you’d better try on the next then.”

The second dress wasn’t much better, nor was the third, or the fourth, or the fifth, or even the sixth. The seventh one, finally, was more acceptable. It clung tightly to her figure, fanning out in a dramatic train at her hips.

“That’s much too gaudy,” Mrs. Mikhailovna sniffed.

Hélène turned to the mirror, carefully evaluating herself. “I think it looks good. Pair it with a nice pearl necklace and—”

“What is this?” Mrs. Mikhailovna’s tone was disapproving as she touched Hélène’s back, just below her right shoulder blade.

Hélène winced. She had figured that with the white fabric that was currently being draped on her and the continuous dressing and undressing, even her most resilient concealer wouldn’t be up to the task of hiding her tattoo for long. It was better, she reasoned, to fake a blasé attitude and hope that Mrs. Mikhailovna assumed her father already knew than to be caught trying to hide something. “It’s a torch,” she said casually. “You know, for my name.”

Mrs. Mikhailovna wrinkled her nose and Hélène raised an eyebrow. “Is it _permanent_?” she said.

“That is generally the point of a tattoo.”

“What a shame,” Mrs. Mikhailovna sighed. “We’ll have to cover that up. Your father really should have mentioned this earlier. I don’t have any idea what he was thinking, letting you get that thing.”

Hélène elected not to mention that her father did not, in fact, know about the tattoo, nor would he ever find out if things went her way.

“I suppose we can’t use any dresses with a low back,” Mrs. Mikhailovna added.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Debutantes are supposed to look fresh and lovely, Elena. That _thing_ is an eyesore.”

Hélène frowned, tugging at the fabric of the skirt.

“And the dress is a bit mature for you, don’t you think? Leave a little more to the imagination. It’s not classy to display yourself like that.”

Hélène shrugged. “I’d be surprised if there’s anyone there who isn’t at least somewhat aware of what’s underneath.”

Mrs. Mikhailovna looked briefly scandalized, but she quickly recovered, blinking away her horror with wide, owlish eyes. “The first dress was much more appropriate. Why don’t we go try it on again? Maybe if we find a size that fits you a little better—”

“This one is perfect,” Hélène said.

“But the back—”

“Can be altered.”

Mrs. Mikhailovna chuckled nervously. “You really are your father’s daughter. He thinks that the world bends to his whims too.”

Hélène masked her snort by pressing a hand to her mouth and nose. Mrs. Mikhailovna must have mistaken her amusement for concern, because she patted her on the shoulder in what was probably intended as a maternal gesture and said, “I suppose we can make it work, dearie, don’t you worry.”

“Oh, trust me,” Hélène said through gritted teeth as she admired her reflection in the mirror tugging down the back so that she could better see her tattoo, “I’ll make it work.”

* * *

It was nice to be back in New York, Hélène conceded. It was less-than-nice, though, to be back under less-than-ideal circumstances. The day passed in a dizzying flurry of tightly-packed appointments, and before she knew it, she was being laced into her gown. As beautiful as it was, the bodice was _tight_ , and she could hardly take more than shallow breaths once it was fully on.

At last she had a reprieve from the chaos in her hotel room as she waited for the cab to arrive. If she had to be here, she decided, it would be on her own terms. And if those terms happened to include the flask of vodka tucked into her garter belt, then so be it. She hiked up her skirt and pulled it out, taking a big swig, wincing as she swallowed. She should have had the foresight to mix it with something, she thought irritably, but that would have diluted her limited supply, and Hélène was determined to be only passably-sober at this event.

Somebody knocked at the door. Hélène stiffened at the sound, and hurriedly stuffed the flask under a pillow, rearranging her skirt. “Yeah?”

Ippolit stuck his head through the doorway, covering his eyes with his hands. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah, come in.”

He removed his hands and stepped into the room. It was odd to see him in a proper suit—well, it was odd to see him at all, but that was a different matter altogether. At least she wasn’t the only one feeling horribly out of her depth. “I just wanted to wish you luck. Before your big debut.”

“Is luck required?”

Ippolit snorted, giving her dress a critical once-over. “I dunno. It might be, for you.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I look like a melting wedding cake. Anatole’s already beaten that dead horse to smithereens. I made the mistake of sending him a photo.”

“You look okay.”

“Thanks,” she muttered.

He sighed, shaking his head as she pulled out the flask from beneath the pillow. “Papa isn’t gonna like that.”

“He isn’t gonna know if you don’t rat me out.”

“Elena…”

“We all have to make compromises sometimes,” she said, taking a swig of vodka. “This is where I draw the line.”

Ippolit dug in his pockets, throwing something at her. “At least have some gum or something before you see him.”

Hélène snatched the gum out of the air and popped it in her mouth. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Just be grateful it’s me with you here and not Anatole.”

Hélène shrugged. “Anatole makes things fun.”

“Or Papa,” Ippolit continued blithely. “He wanted to come up and see you too. I told him he should just meet us there.”

“Lucky me.”

“He put me in charge of wrangling you. I don’t think he fully understands how impossible that is.”

She smirked. “Well, only took you seventeen years, but I think you’ve finally gotten that into your head.”

“We’re leaving in a few minutes,” he said, glancing at the clock. “Just thought you should know.”

“What should I expect?”

“These things are dead boring. Don’t worry about it. It shouldn’t be that eventful.”

Hélène worried a curl between her fingertips. “Alright. Let’s get going, bro.”

* * *

Even by Kuragin standards, the Plaza Hotel was an absolutely stunning place. Ippolit had left her in the lobby and wordlessly made a beeline to the ballroom. Hélène fiddled aimlessly with her pearls, more nervous than she cared to admit. She recognized a few faces in the crowd—Julie Karagina, who she had gone to grade school with; the Mamontova girls that she remembered from Russian school, Sophia and Katherina; countless others that she had seen at church and at summer camp and whose names she either didn’t know or couldn’t recall. Most of them were strangers to her, but they all seemed to know each other. Hélène felt a white-hot flash of resentment shoot through her, directed at her father. If he hadn’t been so damnably set on moving them out to the middle of nowhere, perhaps she would have fit in and maybe had a friend or two in the crowd.

She impatiently pushed those thoughts away. If he hadn’t been so damnably set on making her participate in this stupid ceremony, all of this would be redundant and she would be back home hanging out with Fedya.

The debutantes milled about in the lobby, touching up makeup, putting in last-minute bobby pins, zippering dresses, squeezing their feet into heels. Already, a queue had formed for the lady’s room. Hélène noticed with no small sense of pride how distinctly _indistinct_ all their dresses were, none varying too far from the standard template: white, a-line, sweetheart neck. The last thing she had wanted was to draw attention to herself, but she couldn’t deny how confident she felt with her plunging neckline and tight bodice in a crowd of otherwise-identical girls. How many of them, she wondered, actually wanted to be here? Were there any other Hélènes out there, awkwardly tucked into a corner and wishing the whole night away?

She caught sight of Vasily milling about in the lobby with other fathers and some of the debutantes. He seemed slightly on edge, if the incessant tapping of his left foot was anything to go by, which was out-of-sorts for a man so skilled at hiding his tells. He seemed aware of it though, judging by how quickly he composed himself when he saw her.

“Elena,” he said, his face splitting into a broad grin. He opened his arms for a hug and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “My God, you certainly stand out from the crowd.” The practiced level tone of his voice didn’t escape her notice—did he mean it in a good way or a bad way? Impossible to tell, and before she could begin to parse his statement, he added, “Are you excited?”

A shrug. “As much as anyone could be, I suppose.”

Vasily tapped one finger under her chin, tilting her head up to face him. “Let me hear that again with a smile, please.”

Hélène forced herself to smile brightly and even momentarily considered tossing in an exaggerated thumbs-up. “I’m _so_ excited for tonight, Papa.”

“I met with Boris this afternoon. He’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

Her smile became sickly-sweet. “And how is _dear_ Boris?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and please, listen to me when I tell you not to do anything stupid. I mean it,” Vasily said.

“I don’t know what you mean, Papa.”

“I know that you’re disappointed that the Dolokhov boy isn’t here,” he continued in that lecturing tone of his that she hated so much, “but Boris is a perfectly nice young man, and he doesn’t deserve whatever it is you have planned for him.”

Hélène batted her eyelashes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I would never want to offend my _escort_.”

She could see him visibly fighting to repress his urge to roll his eyes. “Just watch your tone, young lady,” he said tiredly. “Now, come on. It’s time we get in line. Walk and talk, princess.”

“You _do_ know that this whole thing is ridiculous, right? I’ve already met Boris, and he’s a complete—”

“ _E_ _lena_.”

“It’s true, though,” she said petulantly. “You know, Julie Karagina once told me that he tried to grab her ass when—”

“Language,” Vasily sighed. “Honestly, Elena, I couldn’t care less what Julie Karagina said to you.”

“But Julie said—”

“Julie—and this stays between you and I—is far more gossippy than she is sensible. You shouldn’t be paying attention to the things she says.”

“I’m just saying I don’t think Boris’s… _intentions_ are always noble.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s never been anything less than perfectly well-mannered with me. Which is more,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “than I can say of you.”

Hélène frowned, worrying her lip with her teeth. “I don’t always feel comfortable around him.”   

“He’s infatuated with you, princess. Young men sometimes behave oddly when they’re entranced by a beautiful woman.”

She snorted in disgust. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s just one evening and a pointless party.”

“You need to start taking this more seriously” Vasily said, frowning. “These events _matter_ , Elena.”

“To who?”

“These are the people you’re going to know for the rest of your life. You need to start making a positive impression early.”

Hélène looked down at her gigantic white dress and gloves, scowling. “How positive an impression _can_ I make?” she grumbled. “I look like a child bride.”

“Maybe you’ll meet your future husband,” Vasily continued blithely.

Hélène felt her breath leave her in a heady rush. “Is that why you asked Boris to escort me?”

“He’s a conscientious young man and I like his family. Oh, don’t look so horrified. I met your mother at her debut, you know. I was her escort.”

She nearly tripped over the hem of her dress in shock. “You can’t possibly think that Boris and I are going to become engaged.”

Vasily shrugged. “It’s always a possibility. One that you should be open to.”

“That’s ridiculous, I’d never…”

Hélène’s voice trailed off as she caught a side-glance of her reflection in one of the mirrors lining the hall and halted in her tracks. She barely recognized herself, with her curls swept into an updo and pinned and hair-sprayed to oblivion. The makeup, too, was much heavier than anything she would have normally worn. She looked ethereal, like an otherworldly, _older_ version of herself.

And the dress, too, was gorgeous, but overly so. Perhaps her wedding gown would be this ornate one day, but Hélène couldn’t help but feel that it was a little overdone for a seventeen-year-old. God, was it _heavy_ too, and she had a moment of panic thinking of the great concentration it would take to keep herself from tumbling down the stairs. Screw what her father thought—she would never hear the end of it from Anatole or Ippolit if either of them caught wind of it.

Vasily saw her looking at herself and chuckled. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Just like your mother.” Hélène snorted, and he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “It’s true. Your eyes and hair are mine, but your smile…it’s all hers. You’re every bit as stunning as she was.”

His eyes were wet. Was Vasily Kuragin actually getting _weepy_? Her father never cried over anything, hadn’t even shed a tear at her mother’s funeral. And yet here he was, his face growing redder every second until he swept her into a hug and buried his face in her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“No matter how grown-up you get, you’ll always be my little princess, _lapochka_.”

Hélène pulled away, a slight blush blossoming on her cheeks. “I’m not little anymore, Papa.”

His smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “You’ll always be little to me, Elena.”

Hélène sighed and looped her arm through the crook of his elbow. He steered her around the bend of the corridor, never removing his hand from hers, and the mirrors and curtains and side tables lining the hall sped by in a blur of gold and maroon. Hélène felt for a moment as if she had fallen down the rabbit hole like a modern-day Alice into some brocade-velvet dreamland. The air hung heavy with the smell of perfume, and though she could hear the distant chatter of the ballroom and see the hazy lights of the crystal chandeliers, she felt entirely disconnected from the scene playing out in front of her, as if she were watching herself on a movie screen.

At last they entered the ballroom, where a crowd had gathered around the perimeter of the dancefloor. Hélène’s breath caught in her throat.

 _Now’s not the time to panic_ , she told herself.

Vasily must have sensed her nervousness, because he leaned in and whispered, “Remember your poise.”

“Papa…” she began, but the words died in her mouth when the announcer called the girl ahead of her.

Vasily shook his head, tucking her hand in his arm. “Later, princess. Keep your head high as we walk. You’re a Kuragin.”

She tilted her chin up, squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, just as she had practiced a million times over.

“Elena Kuragina, daughter of Vasily and Aline Kuragin,” said the announcer.

Hélène inhaled sharply and stepped forwards, descending the stairs, holding tightly onto her father, until they reached the dais at the edge of the marble-tile dancefloor.

Vasily kissed her hand and cheek before stepping off to the side. Hélène stepped forwards, doing her best to avoid squinting in the face of the dazzling lights as she dipped into a low curtsey. Before she could blink, her part in the ceremony was over and Boris came up to take her hand with a polite smile. He was attractive enough, she supposed—a few inches taller than her, with pale skin, curling dark hair, and wide-set blue eyes. Nowhere near as beautiful as Fedya, but adequate for the evening.

“Elena,” he murmured, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s been too long.”

She gave him a bland smile in return. “Yes, far too long.”

“You look beautiful tonight.”

“You’re too kind.”

Boris tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her to the other end of the ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Ippolit, moping by the musicians’ dais. He seemed more interested in the handsome cellist than his date, who radiated awkwardness across the room as she clung to his arm like a lovely but sad-looking limpet.

 _Be a little less discreet, could you, Lito?_ she thought bitterly, and wished she could reach over and shake him.

The rest of the introductions seemed to last for years, and she found herself desperately wishing that she’d snuck more of the vodka before she had left. Finally, the string orchestra sprang into action, and the score leapt from the upbeat, sugary drudgery of the introductions to a softer, dreamy waltz.

“May I have this dance?” said Boris.

 _May I have a goddamn break from this circus?_ she wanted to say. But Boris didn’t share her sarcastic sensibilities, so instead she opted to give him her most dazzling smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

He led her out to the dancefloor as the other debutantes and escorts assembled in neat rows. Hélène bit back a sigh as she placed a hand on Boris’s shoulder, steeling herself for a long night of dancing in heels. She and Ippolit may have been less than content, but at least Anatole had escaped this whole mess, even if it was purely by virtue of being the youngest.

_I wonder what he’s doing right now._

She cast a sideways glance to the grandfather clock on the far-left wall and saw that was nearly midnight.

 _Probably fast asleep in bed, bless his heart_ , she thought. _At least_ he’s _having a nice, quiet night_.  

* * *

Fedya wasn’t sure whether he should have been concerned or impressed that, “I brought hard liquor!” was the first thing that came out of Balaga’s mouth that night.

True to form and not one to disappoint, he held up a flask and a full bottle of whiskey. Fedya was even less surprised when Anatole reacted in the most Anatole way possible—with pure, childish glee.

“Oh my God,” he said, springing from the sofa to the doorway where Balaga stood with not even his hood pulled up to shield him from the rain. “Are you serious?”

Fedya rolled his head against the backrest of the sofa. Was he going to regret inviting Balaga to help babysit?

 _Ah, well_ , he thought. _May as well wait and see._

Balaga cackled, stepping into the living room with his boots dripping mud and rainwater across the floor, and lugged his bag onto the coffee table. “Well, when the cat’s away and all that.”

“Better clean up that mess before Papa Kuragin gets home,” said Fedya, gesturing to Balaga’s footprints, “or he’s gonna flip a shit.”

Anatole seemed more interested in the flask and whiskey bottle than the trail of mud meandering through the front hallway. He held the bottle with two hands, pressing his eye to the glass. “Are you guys actually gonna let me have some?”

Fedya raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest, and Anatole’s expression wilted as he caught sight of his disapproving frown. “I dunno, Balaga. Are we?”

“C’mon, Fed, don’t be such a hardass,” said Balaga, and he slung an arm over Anatole’s thin shoulders.

Anatole grinned. “Yeah, what he said!”

“You can have a _little_ ,” Fedya said. “In the interest of furthering your education. You aren’t getting drunk, though.”

Balaga and Anatole exchanged a fistbump, and not a moment later the flask was unstoppered. Anatole took a sniff of the contents and immediately wrinkled his nose. “Ew. That smells gross. It…does it taste as bad as it smells?”

“Trust me, kiddo,” Balaga chortled, “you don’t drink vodka for the taste.”

Anatole cocked his head, suddenly looking deeply concerned. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would you drink something that doesn’t taste good? What if I don’t like it?”

Fedya snorted. “If genetics hold true you’ll love it.”

Anatole regarded the flask intently for a moment, before snatching it out of Balaga’s hands and beginning to chug.

Fedya’s eyes went wide and he made a grab for the flask before Anatole could drop it or drink even more. “Whoa, kid, slow down a little, I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. Anatole’s face had gone bright red and his eyes began to water. He coughed, spitting the mouthful out on the floor like it was poison.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he gasped. “And people _enjoy_ drinking this stuff?”

Balaga began to laugh that wild, uncontrollable tea-kettle laugh of his, the one that usually signalled an impending fit of hysteria and wheezing, and collapsed onto the sofa with one hand over his belly.

“It’s a lot more fun if you don’t chug half the goddamn flask, you dimwit,” Fedya snapped. “Hasn’t your sister taught you _anything_?”

Anatole wiped away his tears. “Lena won’t even let me stay up past my bedtime, nevermind giving me advice about drinking.”  

“Well, kid,” said Balaga, evidently having recovered from his laughing fit, “you’ve got a lot to learn and you’re with the best teachers in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” Fedya sighed wistfully. “Remember that time Lena put away half a bottle of vodka without even flinching? We could _all_ learn a thing or two from her.”

“Maybe he’s a lightweight,” Balaga said pensively.

Anatole scowled. “You take that back.”

“Do you even know what that means? Is that word too advanced for your sixth-grade lexicon?”

“I’m in seventh grade, you jerk!”

“You’re still just a lightweight,” Fedya said with a smirk.

“I’m a goddamn Kuragin is what I am.”

Balaga and Fedya made eye contact and Balaga shrugged. “He’s no Lena, but maybe he just needs practice.”

Anatole puffed out his chest a little at that.

“Not something to be proud of,” Fedya added quickly. “Besides, if we get him drunk, Lena’s literally gonna kill both of us.”

Balaga laughed again, waving him down with the hand that was holding the whiskey. “ _Pssshhh_. Lena’s all the way across the country. She won’t know. And what she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

“Dude, I swear she has a sixth sense for these things. Remember that time she made us promise that we wouldn’t pregame without her?”

Balaga turned to Anatole, uncharacteristically serious. “Can you keep a secret?” Anatole nodded eagerly, and Balaga shot Fedya a self-satisfied grin. “See? We’re fine.”

Fedya sighed, raking his hands through his hair. “Fine, fine, whatever. But we are being _safe_.” He turned to Anatole, grabbing him by the shirt. “And if you breathe a word of this to Hélène, I will end you. Understood?”

Anatole paled slightly. “Yessir,” he murmured.

* * *

Anatole, as it turned out, was an even bigger lightweight than Fedya had expected. Forty minutes and far too much whiskey later, the three of them were lounging on the Kuragins’ sofa with some nostalgic music playing in the background (Anatole had pushed for showtunes, but Fedya and Balaga had drawn the line there).

Anatole, in typical Anatole fashion, was being less than cooperative, worsened by his current state of inebriation. God, he hadn’t expected the kid to get smashed so easily. He was going to have a killer hangover in the morning—well, they all were, but him especially—and Fedya thanked his lucky stars that Hélène and Vasily weren’t due to return until next evening. If Anatole hadn’t slept off his hangover by then, at least he would hopefully be together enough to fake sobriety.

Fedya, too, was more drunk than he cared to admit, and he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to Hélène. What was she doing now? Dancing, probably. With Boris and not him.

“You know what fuckin’ sucks?” he announced to the room.

Anatole turned his head towards the sound of his voice. “What? What’s got ya down, Feddy?”

“‘S _Lena_ ,” he grumbled. “I could be with her right now. Dancing and stuff. Sneaking champagne. They went to this fancy-ass hotel, you know? She showed me pics and stuff.”

Balaga snorted. “You hear this asshole, Tolya? _Ungrateful_ for our company.” He seemed the most sober out of the three of them, which wasn’t saying much, but at least he still could speak without slurring every other word.

“ _Yeah_!” Anatole said, attempting to sit up straight but failing miserably. The vodka wasn’t treating him well but he didn’t seem to mind one bit. “Ungrateful!”

“Not un-ungrateful,” protested Fedya. “Bummed.”

Anatole shrugged. “She’s bummed too.” He passed his phone to Fedya, pulling up a photo of Hélène in her dress. She was making a face at the camera, sticking her tongue out.

Fedya sighed. “Your sister’s pretty.”

“Pretty miserable, you mean.”

He flopped onto his back with a dramatic groan. “S-she’d be happy ‘f _I_ were there.” Fedya turned his head to Anatole. “Why wasn’t it me, Toto? Why?”

Anatole blinked. Words took long enough to register with him on a good day, but now, it seemed that his brain had been slowed down even further. “Huh?”

“I jus’ wanna know what did Lena have ‘gainst taking _me_ as her date?”

He began to giggle. “You’re talking funny.”

“A-am not, you little shit.”

“Gonna have to be nicer to me if you want an answer,” he said in a sing-song voice.

Fedya gritted his teeth. Drunk as a skunk, and the kid still somehow managed to find the energy to be a smartass. “L-listen here,” he said, listing from side to side. “I just wanna know why I’m not good enough for a—the hell do you call it again? The fuckin’ ball thingie.”

Anatole frowned in concentration. “Papa makes decisions. Doesn’t want you marrying Len’.”

“Who the fuck said anything about marrying her?” Fedya grumbled.

Anatole blinked, staring at the wall, his eyes wide. “You say ‘fuck’ a lot. Have you noticed that?”

“It comes with age, kid.”

“I don’t care what Lena says,” Anatole slurred. “You two are the _best_ babysitters ever.”

Fedya and Balaga made brief eye contact. “What else has Lena said ‘bout us?” Fedya asked.

Anatole nodded at Balaga. “She said you’re a hot mess.”

Balaga grinned, raising his beer in a toast. “Fuck yeah!”

“But what about me?” Fedya said, pointing to himself as if for emphasis. “D-does she say anything ‘bout _me_?”

Anatole narrowed his eyes, swaying woozily. “Yeah. Like, a lot, actually.”

“But _what_ does she say? Work with me here, kid.”

Anatole giggled. “Can’t remember,” he said, shaking his head, and Fedya’s blood pressure went up another notch.

Balaga, having retreated to one corner of the couch with his hip flask curled in his grip, let out a deep, hearty chuckle at that and tossed back another gulp of vodka. His face had gone quite red by now. Anatole’s too, actually, even more so than Balaga’s. Fedya blinked and touched a hand to his cheek, wondering how flushed he must have been. They couldn’t have drank that much already. No, Anatole couldn’t possibly be that much of a lightweight—this was Hélène’s brother, for crying out loud.

“Hey, Fed?” Anatole asked.

“What is it, kid?”

“Is this what being drunk is like?” he slurred, leaning back against the armrest.

Fedya sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Yes.”

“Hey, Fed?”

“ _What_?”

He began giggling again. “I think I like it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Fedya muttered sourly. “Don’t get too used to it, or—or your sister’s gonna kill me.”

Fedya didn’t find the thought particularly amusing, but Anatole must have thought it was the funniest thing in the world, because his face went even redder and he laughed so hard that he rolled off the couch and onto the coffee table. “ _Pshhh_ ,” he said. “Lena’s not gonna know. W-who gives a damn, anyway?”

“That’s the spirit!” Balaga chortled, vodka dripping down his chin.

“She—she’s gonna know ‘f you get alcohol poisoning,” said Fedya. “’M cutting you off.”

“Not fair,” Anatole said rebelliously, crossing his arms and looking even more childish than before. “I take it back. You’re an awful babysitter.”

“Trust me, Anatole, I’m doing you a favor. If you hurl, I’m not cleaning it up.” Anatole only looked more angry, and Fedya sighed. “Look, kid, do you want your sister to get mad at you?”

“No,” he mumbled sheepishly.

“Good, so we’re on the same page.”

He was sulking now, but Fedya didn’t care one bit, just so long as he didn’t do anything stupid. “I think you don’t want Lena to be mad at _you_ ,” Anatole muttered.

“Yeah, ’f course not,” Fedya said coolly. “She’s terrifying when she’s mad.”

“No, you _like_ her,” Anatole said, a devilish grin having worked its way onto his face. He leaned forward in his seat, his cheeks flushed a bright pink, and prodded Fedya’s chest with one finger. “You _like_ like her.”

Fedya glared at him. “What are you, twelve?”

“Thirteen,” Anatole said proudly, before erupting into a another laughing fit. “Oh, Fe’ya. You crack me up, dude.”

“God, you’re embarrassing when you’re wasted.”

“Am _not_ ,” he protested. He made a move to poke Fedya again but missed completely and wound up slapping at the air instead.

Fedya quirked an eyebrow. “You’re really pushing the ‘dumb blonde’ line tonight, aren’t you?”

“That’s only for bottle blondes. I’m _au naturel,_ thank you very much.”

“Whatever you say, Goldilocks.”

Anatole chucked a pillow at him. “Rude!” He flopped onto his back and propped his feet up on the armrest, staring idly at the ceiling. “Fe’ya,” he said after a long moment’s silence.

“ _What_?”

He grinned. “I remember now.”

“Remember what?”

This prompted another fit of giggles. “What she said about you.”

“Well, get on with it!”

“She loves the stubble, my dude,” Anatole slurred. “ _Loves_ it. I haven’t heard the end of it. You should like, grow a beard or somethin’. She never likes stubble on guys. But you? I dunno why, but she loves it this time.”

Fedya sat forwards and pressed his hands together. “What else does she say about me?”

“Weird shit about your hands. Forearms or something. I dunno, man. That’s all I can think of.” Anatole frowned, seemingly deep in thought. “I think she likes you back.”

Fedya’s breath caught in his throat. “Yeah?”

“She wouldn’t’ve kept you around this long if she didn’t. You were prob’ly supposed to piss off our dad. She says you’re ‘not bad for a guy who acts like a love-struck puppy’.”

Fedya beamed. “She thinks I’m ‘not bad’?”

Anatole shrugged. “Whatever that means.”

They lapsed into a languid silence. Fedya yawned and stretched his arms over his head, and his spine cracked in protest.

Anatole bolted upright, blinking rapidly and looking unusually panicked. “Fedya?”

“ _What_?”

“Where the fuck did B-Balaga go?”

* * *

The dress may have been beautiful, but it was itchy as hell, and _hot_ too. Hélène thanked her lucky stars that she had chosen extra-strength antiperspirant that morning. Her patience was rapidly wearing thin, and the way Boris’s eyes carefully and repeatedly (but utterly indiscreetly) ran up and down the length of her body was not helping the situation. She could tell why her father had chosen him—he was blandly polite, hero-worshipped Vasily, had almost no interest in her personal life, and seemed to love nothing more than hearing the sound of his own voice.

Nothing had changed, she supposed, from last year. Boris, from a distance, was charming and well-spoken, and he had certainly seemed that way to her when they first met. Handsome Boris, a few years older than her, good-looking and all-too-aware of it. It was too easy a lie to believe, and she had bought into it all the same. All she had had to do was cover her eyes and block out the nagging voice in the back of her head. She didn’t regret how she had lost her virginity—Boris was attractive, and she had never harbored strong feelings for him that would have complicated matters. But, she suspected, with the way his eyes were crawling all over her, he had yet to stop thinking of her as a gullible girl who wanted him.

They danced while the orchestra played some forgettable waltz that she only half-listened to, falling into an easy rhythm with his steps. Boris was a good dancer, far better than she was, and she silently thanked her lucky stars that the dance classes Aline had insisted on were enough to keep her from making a fool of herself. He made it look easy, and despite his look of practiced boredom, she could see the gears and cogs turning in that head of his. He was plotting something, but she didn’t quite have the energy to care.

 _It should have been Fedya_ , she thought sourly. Fedya would have snuck them both wine and cracked crude jokes that would have made the other debutantes blush. Fedya would have whispered sarcastic comments and made her laugh with his clumsy dancing. Fedya would have made this nightmare _tolerable_.

Not like Boris. Boring, chauvinistic Boris, with his wandering eyes and holier-than-thou attitude.

God. The whole affair made her want to go running for the nearest basin and puke, and she didn’t even have Fedya with her to make it a little less mind-numbing.

She imagined him dancing alongside her, offering snarky remarks and something of a reprieve from the headache that this night was quickly becoming. He would look very handsome in a tux, though she’d never admit it out loud—God knew his head was big enough already—and she wondered what his dancing would be like. Not graceful, certainly. Fedya didn’t _do_ grace, but he would be charming all the same. A little awkward, then, she decided, but in an endearing way, not the bad-awkward like poor Julie Kuragina and her partner.

 _Four left feet between the two of them_ , she imagined Fedya saying.

The sheer volume of Julie’s gown wasn’t helping matters, and with the hems trailing all over the floor, it was a wonder she wasn’t tripping up any more than she already was. Hélène’s own dress suddenly felt understated.

 _The Russian circus called_ , said imaginary-Fedya. _They want their tent back_.

If Boris noticed how little attention she was paying him, he didn’t bother to mention it. Hélène looked over at Ippolit, desperate to make eye contact. It was a small mercy that he at least looked as miserable as she felt.

 _Help me_ , he mouthed, and she had to duck her head to keep Boris from seeing the way her face split into a grin. She flicked her eyes towards Boris and then rolled them, smiling, despite herself, at Ippolit’s low chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” said Boris.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Well, you have a lovely smile,” he said. “You should wear it more often.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Your father tells me you’re starting to apply to university?”

Hélène blinked in surprise. It was the first thing he had said all evening that wasn’t first and foremost to do with himself. “I am,” she said.

“Beautiful _and_ smart,” he said with a grin. “Where are you thinking of going?”

“U of I is my top choice.”

“Staying in Moscow? When there’s the whole world to be seen?”

“What can I say? It’s nice, having my own little corner of Idaho away from all the chaos and hubbub.”

It wasn’t nice. In fact, it was the exact opposite of nice, but it threw him off-kilter all the same, which in her eyes made it all worth the lie. “That’s a shame,” he said. “It would have been nice see you around NYU.”

Hélène gave him a polite smile. “Yes, such a shame.”

“I’d love to see you next time you’re in town.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe we could get dinner? I can show you around the city. Give you a tour.”

“I grew up here, actually,” she said curtly. “We only moved a few years ago.”

“Ah, of course.” Boris was clearly embarrassed by his misstep, because he quickly steered the conversation backwards. “What are you hoping to study?”

“Papa wants me to major in business or finance,” she said, twisting her mouth, “but I’m not totally sure what I want to do yet.”

“Theatre? Women’s Studies?” At Hélène’s shrug he nodded pensively. “Yes, that would make sense for you.”

Hélène raised her eyebrows playfully. “Care to elaborate?”

Boris smiled pleasantly. “You’re probably going to waste your time in college getting a liberal arts degree and then end up a trophy wife.”

Hélène paused, taking a second to push away the burning wave of indignation that flooded through her. Best not to make a scene, not when the whole crowd had their eyes on them. “That’s a little judgemental, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “That’s what debutantes do. Especially ones who go to state schools.”

“U of I is a perfectly good school,” she said. “I prefer it to Duke, at any rate.”

“You were accepted to Duke?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s almost a shame to see those brains wasted on such a pretty face.”

Hélène felt herself go cold. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a compliment,” Boris said patiently. “You’re too charming to spend your life locked in an office.”

“You’ll forgive me for not thanking you,” Hélène snapped.

“You know, you could probably skip college entirely. I’m sure no one would fault you for not having a degree.”

“I hardly think that’s _any_ of your business.”

“Consider it free advice if you’d like.” The smile on his face was still friendly, but now there was something teasing behind it. “You’d look adorable doing the brunch circuit with the rest of the PTA mothers.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s the life for me,” she said, but he didn’t seem convinced, if the smug look on his face was anything to go by.

“Hey, I’m no misogynist,” he said. “I like smart women.”

“How progressive of you,” she said, taking great care not to grit her teeth.

“As long,” he continued, “as family comes first, of course. I can always admire a woman who devotes herself to her family.”

“Family _is_ very important.”

“As is loyalty.”

“Yes, that’s one of my father’s lines.”

“He’s a smart man.”

Hélène nodded politely. It was almost sad how easily she slipped into this game of charades, how used she was to men who loved nothing more than the sound of their own voice.

“You really take after him,” Boris added.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Your brother too,” Boris said, glancing at Ippolit. “My mother always says that you can spot a Kuragin from a mile away.”

“Two-thirds of us, at any rate. The youngest is at home.”

“Yes,” Boris mused. “I would have thought that Ippolit was too old for these events.”

“Papa is quite insistent on him finding a nice girl to woo. Lito tolerates it for the most part.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And is your stance on wooing as cynical?”

Hélène shrugged. “It isn’t a priority.”

Boris’s hand came up and brushed against her hair. Hélène stiffened in surprise. “Priorities change. People change. You’ve changed a lot, actually, since last year.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t help but think about that night,” he murmured, lowering his voice. “What a handful you were, how much fun we had. You’ve only grown more beautiful since then.”

Hélène blinked, quickly glancing around to make sure that they weren’t being overheard. “We really don’t have to talk about this, Boris.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head. “Nobody’s paying attention, Elena. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” she said firmly. “We hooked up and it was fun, but we’re just friends now.”

“You were just a girl then. I want something with the woman I see in front of me.”

Hélène bit the inside of her cheek. He really hadn’t changed a bit, had he? She smiled blandly at him. “You don’t know me, Boris.”

He laughed. “Is it bad that that’s part of your charm?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “I don’t know what your intentions are but—”

“Relax, darling, I’m not thinking of anything degrading. You’re too classy for that.”

Hélène snorted, deciding to play along. “What are you _thinking_ _of_ then?”

“You know,” he said, smirking as if they were sharing some inside joke, “if you’re going to end up a trophy wife, it may as well be with someone as good as you.”

Hélène’s eyes widened fractionally. He said it so casually, which was somehow much worse than seriousness would have been. “You can’t be serious.”

“Think of it, Elena. A house in the Hamptons, summers in Paris, weekends in the City. We could have a wedding at the Waldorf Astoria, soirées in the summer. We could have _kids_ , Elena. A little Aline and a little—oh, what’s a good boy’s name?” At her horrified expression, he added, “Oh, come on, don’t look so disgusted. What does one do for fun in Moscow anyway? Roll around in the dirt?”

“Among other things,” she muttered, shell-shocked.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you could just leave and know where you’re going?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“We don’t _know_ each other! Why do you even _want_ to marry me?”

“Why not?” Hélène tried to pull away, but he wrapped his hand more firmly around her waist. “You’re intelligent, beautiful, your family is well-established. You’re everything a man could want in a wife.”

“Boris, I’m _not_ interested in you. At all.”

“Come on, pet, don’t be so cold.”

“I mean it.”

“I’ve missed that temper of yours,” he chuckled. “You were always such a firecracker. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

Boris’s hand was drifting down her back, slowly, but not imperceptibly. Hélène gave him a moment to remove it, and when he didn’t, she stomped down on his foot, hard and heel-first, spitefully grateful that she had chosen to wear stilettos.

“ _Jesus_ , Elena,” he hissed. It was a testament to his composure that he barely stumbled before slipping back into the lulled rhythm of the waltz as if nothing at all had happened. Had she been in a better mood, she may have been impressed. “What the hell was that for?”

“Get your hand off my ass before I shove my foot into a more sensitive body part.”

“So graphic,” Boris said. His mild tone couldn’t hide the way he gritted his teeth or tightened his hold on her waist. “You really ought to fix your language, Elena, it’s extremely unbecoming. Is that how they teach you to speak in Moscow?”

“You’re a pig,” she said, never allowing her serene smile to wilt.

“My, what an unpleasant tone to take.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she said sweetly.

Boris gave her a lazy smile. “That’s no way for a lady of high society to talk.”

“And trying to cop a feel is a way for high-society men to behave?”

“I’ve spoken to your father; we’re already practically engaged,” he said. “There’s no need to play demure with me.”

Hélène’s breath caught in her throat for a moment at that, but she hid it by giggling into her glove. Anybody surrounding them would have assumed that she and Boris were sharing a private joke. “You’re delusional, Drubetskoy. Truly.”

Boris let out a fake laugh. “It’s already been decided, Elena. Our parents have been discussing this for _weeks._ ”

“This is a stupid _party_ , Boris,” she snapped. “It doesn’t mean anything, no matter how much you might want it to.”

“Your father wants this. And you’ll listen to him.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“Last summer you seemed more than amenable to the idea if I recall.”

“And last summer you didn’t seem as vile,” she said smoothly. “It was a temporary lapse in judgement. One that won’t happen again.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he murmured. “Especially if the rumors I’ve heard about you are true.”

Hélène tilted her head inquisitively. “I can’t say I’m familiar with the rumors,” she said calmly. “Moscow is far away from the city.”

“Suffice it to say, I don’t think virginal white is your color.”

He looked so damn smug she decided not to give him the pleasure of seeing her irritated. “I don’t think it’s anyone’s color,” she said drily. “It completely washes me out.”

“You’re just lucky you were invited at all tonight,” he said. “If it weren’t for your last name, nobody would be willing to ignore what a little tramp you are.”

It was more than tempting to stomp on his foot again. Hélène opted instead to tug him off-balance and trip him over her the hem of her dress. Boris tumbled forwards, barely managing to right himself in time.

“You’re awfully clumsy tonight,” she said innocently. “Are you feeling okay?”

Boris’s smile was cool and utterly false, and there was murder in his eyes. “My mother warned me about your attitude,” he continued, “but we can fix that.”

Hélène laughed incredulously. “You act as if you’re anything other than an unfortunate mistake I made when I was sixteen. I don’t _care_ what you think of my ‘attitude’, Boris.”

“Of course you do,” he said. “I know how all of your little games work, Elena.”

“Get your head out of the gutter, Drubetskoy. I’m not playing any games.”

He ran his index finger up the ridge of her spine pensively. “Your father told my mother that sometimes you behave this way. I know you like playing hard-to-get. I’m sure it’s frightened off suitors in the past, but I think it’s charming.” Suddenly the hand that had been clasping her waist was slowly sliding up, skating along her ribcage. Hélène stiffened in disgust as he tried to draw her in closer.

“Boris,” she said sharply. “Back off.”

“Come on, lover,” he purred, leaning in. “I won’t bite. Unless you ask me nicely.”

“You’re repulsive,” she hissed. “You’re absolutely repulsive. I’d rather jump off a bridge. You don’t know a thing about me or what I like.”

Something in his expression shifted, hardened. “You should learn to hold your tongue.”

“And _you_ should learn to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Hélène tossed a glance over her shoulder, searching the crowd for her father, desperate for someone to interrupt them. At last she caught sight of him him, in the middle of a flock of what were presumably the fathers of the other debutantes. He just smiled indulgently at her and raised his champagne flute in a toast, seemingly oblivious to her distress.

 _Dammit, Papa,_ she thought. _Don’t leave me like this._

She was startled out of her thoughts when Boris gripped her even tighter, pulling her almost flush with his chest. “You little tease,” he breathed. “What I wouldn’t give to be alone with you right now.”

They had danced themselves into a corner, Hélène realized with a start. She could feel her heart beating in her throat. Boris’s grip on her waist and hand tightened, his eyes cold and leering. “Let go of me,” she hissed.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “What difference does one more notch on your bedpost make?”

She imagined lashing out and clawing her nails across his face, and nearly smiled at the thought. Boris grinned, smug, and pressed himself against her. His hold on her hand shifted to her wrist, vice-like and painful, like a shackle. His other hand dipped low, slowly rucking up her skirt.

Hélène tried to yank her arm back, but his grip held fast. “Boris,” she began, but she was cut off when a tall, imposing figure loomed over his shoulder and moved a hand in between them.

“Excuse me,” Ippolit said politely, and Hélène let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she had been holding. “May I cut in?”

“I’m sure you can spare your sister for a few more minutes,” said Boris.

“I can’t, actually,” he said with that signature charming Kuragin smile. “After all, I hardly get to see her anymore. I’m sure you can understand.”

Boris frowned, but seemed to recognize that there was no way he could refuse without seeming impolite. He looked awkward, uncomfortable, even, and the hand that wasn’t on her wrist released the folds of her skirt. Hélène resisted the urge to grin.

 _Good_ , she thought. _Let him squirm._

“Alright, then,” he conceded after a long silence. He turned to Hélène with the echo of that polite smile, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I look forward to continuing this conversation at a later time, Elena.”

Ippolit led her away in a smooth waltz, careful to avoid the crowded swaths of dancers. “Are you alright?” he murmured once they were sufficiently out of earshot.

Hélène nodded numbly, giving him a smile that was a shade too bright. The music swelled as they fell into an easy rhythm. Ippolit was utterly graceless in comparison to Boris but it was a welcome reprieve. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“I was _fine_ , Lito, I can handle myself.”

Ippolit cocked an eyebrow. “He seemed like he was getting aggressive.”

“You should have let me deal with it,” she muttered.

“What was he saying?”

Hélène’s face darkened. “He was being crude.”

Ippolit drew his mouth in a thin line before nodding in understanding. “I’m sure Papa will be disappointed.”

“I doubt it,” she said bitterly. “I warned him but he didn’t give a damn.”

Ippolit sighed. “I’m sorry. I know that his obsession with finding acceptable spouses is irritating.”

“So you were in on this too?”

“Of course not,” Ippolit said indignantly. “But you know him, you know that this has always been his play.”

“Boris made it sound like the decision was already made,” Hélène said softly.   

“It’s the twenty-first century, Lena. Papa can’t make you marry anyone you don’t want to.”

“Is that what happened to Mom?”

“Lena.”

“I’m just asking,” she said, but Ippolit clearly didn’t want to discuss the matter any further. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Boris will talk to him and tell him that this was just an unfortunate misunderstanding and Papa will keep throwing me at him.”

“Elena—”

“What if something _happens_ next time?” She felt herself starting to tremble. “What if someone isn’t there to intervene?”

Ippolit’s face softened. “That’s not going to hap—”

“You don’t know that, Lito,” she said. Hélène squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake the lingering feeling of Boris’s hand on on her waist. “Papa told him that I wouldn’t want him at first. That all he had to do was keep pursuing me and I’d change my mind. He basically gave Boris permission to attack me.”

“He’s old-fashioned, I guess.”

Hélène let out a laugh utterly devoid of humor. “‘Old-fashioned’? That’s an awfully generous way of putting it.”

Ippolit huffed exasperatedly. “You make it sound like Papa was trying to get Boris to assault you, Lena. I agree that some of his ideas are…questionable, but he’s trying to do what’s best for you.”

“He’s never done what’s best for me,” Hélène said quietly. “We’re a means to an end. At least he takes you seriously.”

“He takes you seriously—”

“He _doesn’t_. He’s grooming me to be a cute little wife for whichever scrub he decides to promote.”

“Would that really be so terrible?” Hélène stared, fury burning in her eyes, and he quickly backtracked. “You don’t have to marry someone horrible. Maybe you’ll find someone you care about. You could move out, live life on your own terms. You wouldn’t have to listen to Papa anymore.”

“You know that isn’t true. He’s doing this to keep me under his thumb.”

Ippolit sighed. “It’s still a few years away. It’s best not to think about it. Once you’re in college and away from home, you’re free.”

“It doesn’t pan out that way for everyone, evidently,” she said, nodding to him.

“What are you talking about?”

Hélène twisted her mouth into something wry and frustrated. “I would have thought you’d be too old for this sort of thing. Since when do you enjoy social events or dancing anyway?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Guess Papa’s influence stretches a little further than we both thought.”

Ippolit’s expression darkened. “He’s under the impression that I just need to meet the right young lady.”

“And he’s under the impression that I just need to _be_ the right young lady. Our situations aren’t all that different.”

“My night still seems like it’s going better than yours, at least.”

She snorted. “It wouldn’t take much.”

“God, I hate these things.”

“Anatole got off easy, didn’t he?” she said.

Ippolit didn’t seem amused. “I’m not so sure of that, Lena. He got off this one night, but you have it easy every other day of the year.”

“You aren’t at home anymore. You don’t know how hard it is.”

He scoffed, looking mildly offended. “ _I_ don’t know how hard it is? Why do you think I left in the first place?”

Hélène blinked. It was one of those rare moments where she found herself completely at a loss for a response. “Lito,” she murmured, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Didn’t think?” he said, tilting an eyebrow.

“No, I didn’t mean to…oh, just forget I said anything in the first place.”

“Look, don’t worry yourself about Boris,” Ippolit said firmly. “Most of Papa’s ideas are draconian, but he isn’t going to tolerate someone who tried to assault you in public. And if he won’t listen to you, maybe he’ll at least listen to me.”

Hélène’s expression wilted and she stumbled for a moment before catching herself.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s alright. I know you’re upset, I know it sucks. Just think—you’ll be turning eighteen soon and once college comes, you can get the hell out of Moscow and then you never have to look back.”

Her limbs went cold and stiff. “What, and leave Toto behind? God, I know we haven’t always been on the best of terms, Lito, but surely you don’t really think I’d be that heartless.”

“It’s not heartless, Lena. You can’t always save everyone. Sometimes, the best you can do is save yourself.”

“Oh, like you did?”

“Lena, listen—”

“I think I’ve had enough dancing,” she said coolly.

Ippolit’s face softened. Did he regret what he said, she wondered, or did he regret that she hadn’t reacted the way he had intended? “Very well,” he said. But before she could leave, he caught her by the wrist, drawing her close. “I’ll cover for you if you want to duck out,” he whispered. “If you don’t want to stay, I mean.”

“Thank you, Lito,” she murmured.

“Of course, Lena,” he said. “Papa’s by the stairs; take the back exit and stay close to the wall or he’ll see you.”

Hélène squeezed his hand in thanks, casually meandering towards the back door when her eyes locked in on the familiar figure leaning against one of the marble poles that ran the length from the floor to the ceiling.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath, and froze in her tracks. Boris. She had completely forgotten about him, and he was _looking_ for her, if the way his eyes impatiently roamed the crowd was anything to go by. She turned away, but was a second too late.

“Ah, Elena,” he said, striding towards her. “I was beginning to think I had lost you for the rest of the night.”

Hélène forced a smile. There were some battles that were worth picking, and this wasn’t one of them. If she could simply extricate herself from this mess without causing a scandal for her father to tut over, things would be much simpler. “I was beginning to hope you had.”

“Would you care for another dance? Maybe a drink?”

“I wouldn’t, actually,” she said.

“You don’t need to be so shy around me,” he said, taking hold of her hand.

How to get rid of a man in the most polite way possible? Hélène wracked her brains and went with the first thing that came to mind. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I have to go change my tampon.”

But Boris seemed entirely unfazed, which was the exact opposite reaction she had expected. “One dance.”

“No, thank you.” She made a move for the hallway, but Boris’s grip slid from her hand to her wrist and held fast. “Boris,” she snapped.

“Come on, love,” he said. “You’re going to ruin my night.”

“What a shame. I still don’t want to dance.” Hélène tugged at her arm again and he only tightened his hold further.

“Don’t be such a tease, Elena.”

“To be a tease I’d have to have a _modicum_ of interest in you. Please, let me go.”

“Really, the whole ‘fake-coy’ routine is getting a little—”

“Let go of me,” she snarled, “or I swear, I’ll make a scene.”

Boris chuckled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Hélène made her voice dangerously soft, the way she had heard Vasily talk when he made threats or business deals. “I’ll scream. And cry. Have you ever seen me cry, Boris? It’s quite a spectacle. I don’t think anyone in the room would be able to ignore it.”

Boris rolled his eyes. “Stop being ridiculous, Elena, honestly—”

“I’ll tell everyone that you’re trying to hurt me.”

His expression hardened, his posture stiffening. “You lying little slut,” he hissed.

“Who would my father believe, me or you?” she said, batting her eyelashes innocently. “Because I hate to think of what would happen to your career prospects if he thought that you were trying to take advantage of me.”

Boris’s jaw went slack, and Hélène took advantage of his momentary shock to wrench her arm free from his grip.

“Have a lovely evening,” she said sweetly, and swept out of the ballroom without so much as a backwards glance. She huffed a deep breath when she made it into a cab, reaching down to take off her shoes and massage her aching feet.

_BZZZ BZZZ. BZZZ BZZZ._

Hélène pulled out her phone, grinning despite herself when she saw that she had texts from Fedya and Anatole waiting for her.

 **Fedya:** are you still alive?

 **Lenka:** unfortunately, yes

 **Lenka:** im just glad its all over with

 **Lenka:** how was toto?

 **Lenka:** was he an even bigger pain in the ass than usual?

 **Fedya:** he was fine

 **Lenka:** anything exciting?

 **Fedya:** we kept it super low-key. Nothing too interesting or fun

 **Fedya:** How was the ball thing?

 **Lenka:** its over and that’s the main thing

 **Lenka:** boris was a fucking prick as usual but what else is new?

 **Lenka:** i have a flight to catch in the morning and its super late. Im gonna hit the sack

 **Lenka:** u coming to the airport tomorrow?

 **Fedya:** cool sure thing

 **Fedya:** of course i am!

 **Fedya:** breakfast-for-dinner at that diner off main?

 **Lenka:** you know it ;)

* * *

**Toto:** HI LENA I HOPE YOU HAD FUN CANT WAIT TO SEE YOU TOMORROW

 **Lena:** shouldn’t you be in bed?

 **Toto:** i AM in bed

 **Toto:** i am texting u from my bed

 **Toto:** When can Fedya and balaga babysit again?

 **Lena:**???


	2. Origination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène has a chance encounter on New Years Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wanted to have this ready for y'all for New Years, but we procrastinate lots! 
> 
> Kudos and comments make our days brighter! 
> 
> If you want to ready more fic from this 'verse, check out our longer work 'Either Very Clever or Very Stupid'

Hélène was in a foul mood.

It could have been for a thousand different reasons. It could have been that the temperature was ostensibly too cold for her cocktail dress. It could have been the deodorant stains that she had just discovered on the outfit she had planned to wear. It could have been that her favorite earrings had seemingly disappeared.

Or, as was the situation in most cases, it could have been her little brother. Anatole on a regular day was irritating enough, but Anatole with a bad head cold was pushing _intolerable_.

“Go to _bed_ , Anatole,” she told him for what felt like the millionth time that evening. “It’s late.”

Anatole, in typical Anatole fashion, responded by pouting even more. “But it’s New Year’s, Lena,” he whined. “Come on, I wanna do something.”

“You’re sick.”

“It’s just a cold! I’m _fine_.” This statement was followed by a sneeze so loud that it nearly blasted out her eardrums. Hélène rolled her eyes and fetched him another handful of tissues.

“You look half-dead and I think if you sneeze anymore you’re going to, like, eject your brain out of your nose.”

“ _Gross_!”

“I agree,” she said. “Which is why you can’t go out in public.”

Anatole folded his arms and collapsed onto the couch. “I know you wanna go out and you can’t leave me home alone.”

“I sure as hell _can_ leave you alone,” she snapped.

“That’s not what Papa said!”

“Papa isn’t here,” she said coolly. “And you aren’t going anywhere.”

At that, Anatole attached himself to her arm. “C’mon, Lena, it’s just one night. Please!”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“Toto.”

“Pretty pretty please with a— _ACHOO!_ —with a cherry on top?”

Hélène crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll give you something for your cold and if you look better in an hour I’ll take you. Deal?”

Anatole’s face lit up beatifically. He kissed her cheek. “You’re the best sister in the whole world.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time you’re complaining about doing the dishes.”

* * *

 

Forty minutes later, Anatole was asleep in a Benadryl-induced coma and Hélène was preening in front of her vanity. Her phone, perched on the dresser, pinged quietly.

 **Fedya:** Lena ive been ringing your doorbell for 5 minutes

 **Fedya:** can u let me in

 **Lenka:** the doors unlocked

Fedya’s heavy footfalls announced his presence as he kicked his shoes off at the door. “You’re such a princess.”

Hélène came down the stairs, bronzer still in hand. “There’s nothing wrong with taking some pride in your appearance.”

“You always look good,” Fedya muttered.

“I know,” she said sweetly. “Which is why I want to look extra good.”

Fedya rolled his eyes, plopping down on the floor in the living room. “Where’s your other half?”

“In his room.”

Fedya nodded expectantly, waiting for her to continue. “And?”

“And what? He isn’t coming with us.”

“You’re okay with your brother being on his own tonight?”

Hélène shrugged. “He’s conked out. He won’t even know I’m gone.”

Fedya narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I gave him some medicine and he passed out.” Fedya furrowed his brow in concern, and she quickly added, “He has a cold, he needed it anyways. I didn’t, like, _drug_ him or anything.”

“Lena…”

“Jesus, Fed, it was just some Benadryl. He’s always been sensitive to it and he looked like he was ready to pass out anyway. A nap will do him some good. He likes naps, it’s not like—”

“Alright,” he said, holding up his hands. “I get it. It’s just as well he isn’t harassing us about coming tonight anyways.”

“Ever since you gave him booze, I can’t drink in the house without him harassing me,” Hélène grumbled.

“Look, if I’d’ve known what a pain he was gonna be…” Fedya’s voice trailed off with a smirk. “Ah, who am I kidding? I’d’ve done it to piss you off anyway.”

She playfully swatted him on the shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet you still put up with me.”

“Who else could I bring on my wild escapades? Besides, you picked up this time. What did you bring?”

Fedya held up his backpack, weighing it approvingly. “I know you wanted wine, but tequila was cheaper.”

Hélène wrinkled her nose as she pulled out the bottle. “Gross.”

“Do you have a chase?”

“I haven’t been to the store. I think we might have juice?”

Fedya frowned. “That sounds disgusting.”

She jostled his shoulder. “Come on Feddy Bear. The Fedster. Live a little.”

Fedya nearly did a spit-take. “‘The Fedster’? Whose brilliant idea was that?”

“Have a wild guess.”

“I love the kid, I really do,” he said, “but Anatole can’t come up with nicknames for shit.”

Hélène threw back a shot, scrunching up her nose at the taste. “I hate this.”

Fedya snickered. “You look cute when you’re doing shots.”

“I always look cute, Fedya,” she said haughtily, and poured out another round.

“Slow down, tiger,” he said. “You’re bad at handling your booze.”

Hélène grinned, taking one of his hands and interlocking their fingers. “C’mon, Feddy Bear. Let’s have a wild night.”

“Oh, it’ll be wild, no doubt about that,” he said sarcastically.

Hélène shrugged. “It’s New Years. I wanna be smashed.”

“Lena.”

“Aw, don’t be so gruff, sourpuss.”

“You’re impossible to deal with when you’re _sober_ , let alone wasted.”

She patted his chest fondly. “That’s why I have you.”

“I’m not your handler, Hélène.”

Hélène frowned. “What’s gotten into you? We’re gonna have fun, relax.”

“It’s just…do you think we could have _one_ night where you don’t binge drink?”

“We’re going to a house party, Fedya,” Hélène reminded him. “Everyone there is gonna be plastered. If we’re sober, we’re gonna be miserable.”

Fedya let out a long-suffering sigh. Hélène had grown very familiar with that sigh over the past few years. “Fine,” he said, “just be careful.”

* * *

 

It was two minutes until midnight and Fedya was nowhere to be found. Hélène shook her head irritably, scanning the crowd for him. He had gone to get drinks almost twenty minutes ago. I’ll be back in five minutes, he had said, but anyone who knew Fedya Dolokhov also knew that when he meant five he really meant ten. Fifteen was pushing it but not unprecedented.

But twenty. This was out of the ordinary.

Hélène huffed and folded her arms across her chest. Fedya was never late to anything, not unless he wanted to be. He’d been in such a pissy mood all night, but she couldn’t believe he’d abandon her on _New Years_.

She briefly considered calling him, but in the din of the room, he probably wouldn’t hear a thing, and knowing Fedya, his phone would be on vibrate, if not silent.

Texting, then.

 **Lenka:** where r u asshole

 **Lenka:** Fedya it’s almost midnight

 **Lenka:** are you seriously gonna break tradition

 **Lenka:** look if u didnt want to do it at least have the courage to tell me in person

 **Lenka:** dammit fed

 **Lenka:** dont leave me like this

 **Lenka:** Fedya if u dont come back im gonna find someone else i swear

 **Lenka:** fine.

Hélène grabbed the guy milling around next to her. “Hey, do you wanna dance?”

He seemed startled, blinking owlishly behind round glasses. “Um, sure, I guess?”

He was kind of cute, she supposed, in an awkward nervous way. There was something bizarrely innocent— _endearing_ , actually—in the way his hands tentatively wrapped themselves around her waist, as if he was afraid of crushing her.

The countdown began and she stood on her toes and slung one arm around his neck, drawing him down and close and crashing their lips together. She heard him squeak in surprise, his arms fluttering nervously at his sides.

“Happy New Year,” she murmured, pulling away. His cheeks were flushed a bright pink and his glasses were askew.

“Happy New Year,” he said. He seemed vaguely dazed, almost shell-shocked.

“Well this was fun,” she said sweetly. “But I should track down my friend.”

“I’m sorry,” he said haltingly. “I didn’t get your name?”

“Oh. Hélène.”

He stuck his hand out awkwardly. “I’m Pyotr. But everyone calls me Pierre.”

She stared at him. “Okay?”

“Could I get your number?”

She laughed, heading towards the door. “I don’t think so.”

* * *

 

 **Fedya:** oh shit sorry lena i jsut saw these now

 **Fedya:** where did you go?

 **Fedya:** im sorry i was in the bathroom and i lost track of time

 **Fedya:** you know how crap my phone is

 **Fedya:** pls don’t be mad im sorry

 **Fedya:** are you okay??

* * *

 

Pierre followed her out to the street, frowning. “Can I at least call you a cab?”

Hélène leaned against the wall and began to root through her purse. She was slightly disappointed to find that she lacked the energy to be annoyed at him. “I’m not leaving,” she said simply.

Pierre closed his mouth.

Back to digging. God, where were they? She’d only cleaned out her bag last week and—at last, there they were: her pack of cigarettes and lighter, buried deep in a side pocket under a mountain of tissues and gum packets and other assorted crap. She lit her cigarette and leaned her head back.

Pierre wrinkled his nose. “Those things’ll kill you.”

She shrugged, allowing a faint plume of smoke to billow out of her mouth. It was a bad habit, one that she had been trying to break, but he didn’t need to know that. And besides, the rush of nicotine and tobacco was soothing, _grounding_ even. Enough to clear some of the fog from her mind. “We’re all gonna die eventually.”

Pierre snorted as he took in her dress and heels. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it. Besides, I like to look at the stars,” she murmured. “We could never see them back home.”

Pierre stood next to her. God, the man was awkward. Strangely enough, it didn’t detract from his cuteness—or was it the other way around, and his cuteness was because of his awkwardness?

“Do you know any of the constellations?”

“I know the stories,” she said softly. “My mother used to tell them to us. But I don’t know how to find them.”

“So you look for those three stars,” Pierre said, pointing them out. “And that’s Orion’s belt.”

Hélène swatted him on the shoulder. “Everyone knows _that_ one. Impress me.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh! Um, okay, then. Let’s see.” Pierre pushed his glasses further up his nose. “See that bright star? That’s Sirius, the North Star. If you follow that trail down, you can see Canis Major.” Pierre pursed his lips. “Usually you can see more, but I think the sky’s a bit overcast today. Sorry it’s not more exciting.”

Hélène didn’t seem bothered in the least. “Are you an astronomy major?”

“Oh, no,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “Just an astronomy nerd. I used to love looking at the night sky as a kid and it just…it’s become a real passion of mine. I’m majoring in philosophy.”

“So, how do you impress girls with philosophy?” Hélène’s smile was sweet, blandly polite, but Pierre could see a trace of mischief in her eyes.

“I generally don’t impress anyone. With anything,” he said shyly.

“You could change that, you know. Try out a line on me.”

“Really?”

She grinned. “I’m a receptive audience. Try me.”

“Um, let me think…I think I dropped something when I met you…my jaw?”

She snorted. “That was _horrible_.”

Pierre shrugged, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “I warned you.”

“If _I_ was flirting with me,” she said, and she turned to face him now—he deserved that much, at least, “I’d start by offering my jacket.”

“But you said you weren’t cold.”

Hélène shrugged. “Chivalry’s important.”

Pierre chuckled, shucking off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. “Okay, what next?”

Hélène pursed her lips. “I’d put an arm around my shoulders.”

Pierre did so, awkwardly at first, but he seemed to relax when she leaned her head against his chest. He was nice and warm and solid. Taller than Fedya, but the difference was a pleasant one.

“Now give me a compliment,” she instructed. “Something genuine.”

Pierre smiled down at her. “I think you might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he said softly.

Hélène’s breath hitched in her throat for a second before a warm, infectious grin blossomed on her face. “See? You’re doing fine.”

He smiled incredulously. “Really? You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Does kissing you come next?” he asked, in a burst of adrenaline.

Hélène smirked. “If you ask nicely, it might.”

Pierre’s breath rushed out of him. “Can I kiss you?” he whispered.

Hélène nodded, snaking her arms around his neck. She drew him down so that his face was level with hers. Her reflection was half-visible in his glasses. Pierre wrapped a hand around her waist, cupping her jaw with the other. He looked tentative, nervous even. She pressed her lips to his before he could chicken out. Pierre gripped her a little tighter, moving his hand to cup her head, and Hélène giggled breathlessly.

“Hélène?” came a voice from further down the street. The two of them jumped apart as a man rounded the corner, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve been looking for you _everywhere_.” Pierre made eye contact, feeling a chill rush through him at the other man’s hostile expression. He had about a foot and at least fifty pounds on the stranger, but there was something vaguely _threatening_ about him that Pierre couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Oh, hi, Fedya,” Hélène said.

The man—Fedya, he supposed—drifted behind her like a shadow, wrapping an arm around her hips. He pressed his chin to the point where her neck met her shoulder.

“What’s up?” said Hélène, and she absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. The unspoken familiarity between them was clear as day.

Pierre’s face seemed to droop slightly at that. He was a stranger here, he realized. At best, an uninvited guest. At worst, an intruder. “Oh, hello,” he said.

“What’s going on out here?” said Fedya. The question was clearly directed at Hélène, but the dismissive tone he had taken seemed to be meant for Pierre.

“Made a new friend,” hummed Hélène, swaying in his arms. Was she trying to dance? Was she drunkenly off-balance? Who knew? “This is Pierre. Say ‘hi’, Pierre.”

Pierre waved halfheartedly. “Hi there.”

But Fedya clearly wasn’t paying attention to what he had to say. “I was looking for you inside,” he said to Hélène. “We should get going.”

Hélène stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, you’re lame.”

“Come on, baby, it’s late.”

“‘Baby’?” she guffawed. “The fuck is wrong with you? ‘Lena’ is fine.”

Pierre chuckled at that, and Fedya shot him a venomous glare. “I already flagged down a cab, come _on_.”

“Ugh, _fine_.” She turned to Pierre. “Gimme your phone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you still want my number or not?”

Pierre’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Sure! Only if…only if you want to.”

Now Fedya’s eyes went wide. He shot Hélène a look that clearly said, _Are you kidding me?_ She ignored him, grabbing Pierre’s phone and putting in her number. “Text me?”

“Oh!” Pierre said again. He was _very_ cute, she decided, all owlish blinks and a constant look of surprise on his face. A foil to Fedya’s stoicism. “Oh yeah, sure.” A nervous smile. “Awesome!”

She grinned at him. “See you around.”

Fedya’s grip seemed to tighten around her waist as he steered her towards the street. “Jesus, are you okay?” she snapped.

“I’m tired, and I want to go home,” Fedya said coolly.

Hélène raised her eyebrows. “Okay then.”

“What _was_ that?” Fedya said when they got into the cab.

Hélène snorted, leaning against the window. “Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout, Fedya.”

“Who was that guy?”

“No one.”

“It didn’t look like you were talking to _no one_.”

“Relax, tough guy,” she murmured. “It’s not like anything’s going to come of it.”


	3. Prevarication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène stirs the pot, much to Pierre's dismay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By request (!) the Sham Wedding referenced in 'Either Very Clever or Very Stupid'!

Hélène was perplexed. Vasily Kuragin, for the first time in her entire life, was not responding to any of the provocations she had already hurled his way this evening. In fact, he was in an unusually accommodating mood, the likes of which she hadn’t seen since…well, actually, she couldn’t recall _ever_ seeing him so mild-mannered. It was especially tiresome, given the campaign he was supporting.

He hadn’t even blinked when he’d taken in her royal blue cocktail dress—if she couldn’t protest with words, she was going to do it by any other means possible. Hélène had never liked feeling like her father had the upper hand on her, and here, at the Republican donor party he was hosting, she felt wildly out of her element.

It helped, at least, that she had her boyfriend to suffer with her.

“There he is,” Pierre said under his breath, and he gestured across the room to the short, dark-haired man at the beverage table. “Napoli Buono, the Devil of Moscow County.”

Hélène side-eyed him with a raised eyebrow. He wasn’t especially drunk, as far as she could tell, so there seemed no other explanation for his sudden outburst, especially considering how quiet he had been all day. “You’re telling me that you’ve been here all evening and you’ve only just noticed him?”

“Were it not for the laws of this land, I’d strangle that man in an instant,” he growled.

Hélène nearly choked on her champagne. “You sound ridiculous.”

“Look at him,” he continued, and though he was frowning she could tell he wasn’t being entirely serious. Perhaps he was trying to amuse her, then, and lighten the foul mood that she was no doubt projecting halfway across the room—as good an actress as she was, there was only so much bullshit you could put up with before it began to show on your face. “The slimy bastard. You ever wonder why short people are so evil? It’s because they’re closer to Hell.”

“Oh my _God_ , Pierre,” she snorted, finally cracking a smile. “You’re only saying that because you’re a giant.”

“I thought you’d be more upset about this,” he said. “Don’t his stances on women’s rights bother you?”

Hélène shrugged. “Of course they do. I think he’s a misogynistic prick.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow.

“Look, if I spent all my energy hating every sexist asshole I came across, I’d spend my whole life doing nothing but hating. It gets tiring after a while.”

“I’m not saying you have to call out every sexist asshole, but you’re here _supporting_ him. You’re a Women’s Studies major, for Christ’s sake.”

Hélène gestured to her dress. “Look, I’m protesting. In my own quiet way, but I’m still protesting.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Does your dad believe in this stuff too?”

She snorted again. “Of course he does. He’s been talking about getting Planned Parenthood shut down for years.”

“How does a family like that end up with someone like you?”

“I’m contrary by nature and I enjoy antagonizing my father,” she said with a shrug. “It was inevitable.”

Pierre laughed and squeezed her hand. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from my Lena.”

Hélène gave him a smile and pulled her hand away a little too quickly and a little too sharply. “Look, I hate Buono as much as you. He’s a complete jackass. But that doesn’t mean you can, like, toss him out the window or something.”

“I never mentioned anything about tossing anybody out of a window.”

“You were thinking of it.”

“Was not.”

“I mean, if you still want to fuck with this guy in a way that won’t get the cops called, I’m down for that,” said Hélène. She nudged his arm with her elbow and smirked. “I wonder how much that suit of his costs.”

“Looks expensive. Nice suit, though.”

“I think it’d look a lot nicer covered in sauce.”

Pierre shook his head bashfully. “We shouldn’t do anything. I’m still trying to get your dad to like me.”

“You were the one who was going on about clobbering the guy a minute ago.”

“It was just a dumb thought. I wasn’t really being serious. I just thought it’d make you laugh.”

“My dad already likes you already anyway,” she continued.

Pierre blinked incredulously, like a deer in headlights. It was adorable, in a way, and she almost laughed again. “He likes me?”

“Speak of the devil,” Hélène murmured as she caught sight of Vasily making his way over to their corner of the room.

“Come here, angel,” he called—the first words he had spoken to her all night, if you didn’t count the stern _“Behave, Elena”_ he had given her before the party had even started.

Hélène sighed with a tired smile and handed Pierre her champagne flute. “Duty calls.”

Pierre grinned. “Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, trailing a hand behind her as she made her way to the front of the room with her father and the crowd parted to make way for them.

The chatter and buzz died down as Vasily tapped at the rim of his champagne flute. Hélène groaned internally and readied herself for another one of his long-winded speeches.

“I have children of my own, and I’ve become so disturbed by the lack of morality in today’s youth. We need a candidate who will protect our values.”

How often had she heard this speech, repeated over and over like a broken record player? God, it was getting old. No, scratch that—it had been old since the first time he had said it. Hélène wondered if she could recite it from memory at this point and she followed along as her father spoke, silently mouthing the words to herself.

“The institution of the family is and must always remain sacred in our collective consciousness.” All around the room, heads nodded and people murmured in assent, and he continued, “But as of late, it has come under threat. Young people are beginning to forget that families are the foundation of our society. They are beginning to forget the sanctity of life itself, from conception to natural death.”

Hélène locked eyes with Pierre from across the room. It was a small mercy that he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. She was willing to bet that they were the only two registered Democrats in the room, _and_ the only attendees under forty.

At least Anatole hadn’t been invited—another small mercy, this one admittedly much larger than the first. She briefly wondered what a disaster the event would have become had he been set loose in a room full of stodgy old people and unguarded alcohol readily sitting out on the tables, before deciding that she was already in a bad enough mood and really didn’t want her mind wandering down that particular rabbit hole.

“I have faith, however, in our dear friend Napoli Buono, who has devoted himself to representing us and our family values in the upcoming midterm election.”

There was a light smattering of applause as Vasily finished his drivel. Buono, who was very noticeably clapping the loudest, stepped forwards with a plastic grin to shake Vasily’s hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Kuragin.”

“Please,” he said, “call me Vasily.”

Buono turned to face the audience. “If I may say a few words as well, I would foremost like to express my deepest gratitude to the Kuragin family for their incredible support and hospitality. I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for them.”

A round of applause went up across the room. Vasily smiled humbly, nodding.

“The campaign trail has been difficult, but when I encounter families like the Kuragins, I’m reminded of why this work is necessary. They exemplify the traditional family values that I am committed to preserving. Through his exceedingly generous donations to my campaign, Vasily Kuragin has enabled me to continue to spread the message of wholesome, American values in a political landscape marked by rampant immorality. He truly epitomizes the definitions of a conscientious citizen, and family man. We’re fortunate to have one of his children here today. His beautiful daughter, Elena, is with us.”

Hélène smiled sweetly, repressing her urge to grimace as Buono placed a hand on her back and her skin prickled all over in revulsion. She wondered briefly how many people had written his speech for him, how many times he had rehearsed these words that were as fake and hollow as his smile.

“Yes, I’m very proud of my Elena,” Vasily said quickly, before she could speak, and this was where he made his fatal mistake.

 _The bastard_ , Hélène thought. He must have seen the thoughts bubbling below the surface of her mind. That was fine, then. If he wasn’t going to let her have her audience, she would find a way to take it by force.

He turned to her, offering her a glittering flute of champagne.

It was in that moment that Hélène had an Idea. A terrible, awful, horrible, _perfect_ Idea.

“I can’t,” she said plainly. “I’m pregnant.”

Confusion registered on Vasily’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

Louder: “I’m _pregnant_ , Papa.”

It could easily have been a joke, except nobody laughed. Instead, there was dead, horrified, petrified silence. From elsewhere in the room there came the sound of shattering glass as somebody dropped their drink. Pierre slumped against the wall, a hand over his heart.

“What the fuck,” she heard him say, a nearly-silent ghost of a whisper.

Vasily barely allowed his mask to slip for a second. “Please excuse my daughter. This is her idea of a joke. One,” he added, glaring at Hélène, “that isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking,” she said, enunciating every word as slowly and loudly as she possibly could. _Elocution_ , as Vasily always used to say. “I had premarital sex, and now I’m knocked up.”

“My God,” somebody murmured.

“Elena,” he hissed. “Excuse yourself _now_.”

“What do you think? Should I give it up for adoption? Or keep it?”

“We’ll deal with this later, young lady.”

“I always could get an abortion,” she said calmly. “That is, if you’d stop trying to defund Planned Parenthood.”

Gasps of horror. Disapproving tuts. Every eye in the room was on her, their gazes burning against her skin. Every eye, of course, except Pierre’s, who seemed to have taken a newfound interest in his shoes.

Vasily’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Of course not, Elena,” he said finally. “This child is a gift from God.”

“Then surely you’ll help support this gift from God,” she said. “Financially.”

Pierre had gone very red in the face. He sputtered incoherently for a few moments before finally saying, “Marry me, Hélène!”

Vasily and Hélène turned towards him with twin expressions of bewildered alarm.

“What did you say?” Hélène said, which only flustered him further.

“Will you marry me?” he repeated pathetically.

Hélène’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. He looked so pitiful, so awkward and so out-of-place that it tugged on her heartstrings despite herself. “Pierre, baby, you really don’t have to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elena,” Vasily cut in smoothly. “Your child will need its father.”

Her jaw dropped. “I’m only eighteen, I’m not going to get _married_.”

“If you’re old enough to be pregnant, then you’re old enough to be married. Your child shouldn’t be born out of wedlock. Ask again, Pierre,” he said. “I believe my daughter deserves a formal proposal.”

Pierre gulped and glanced at Hélène out of the corner of his eye. “Yessir. Of course. W-when should I—?”

Vasily gave him a dry smile. “Now is fine.”

If looks were bullets, Pierre would have been absolutely riddled. His gaze flickered between Hélène and her father, unsure of what exactly to do, like an oversized, scruffy, bearded Bambi.

“H-Hélène Vasilyevna Kuragina,” he began shakily, stumbling over his words as he got down on one knee. “Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Pierre took Hélène’s hand in his. She took in a deep, fortifying breath, and turned to glare at her father. “Of course, darling.”

The room burst into applause, hesitant at first until Vasily nodded in assent.

Hélène turned to flee, red-faced, but Vasily grabbed her by the arm as she tried to maneuver around him. “And where are you going?”

“To the bathroom,” she muttered. “And then I’m going to be sick.”

Vasily scowled and walked her over into the hallway so that they were well out of earshot of the rest of the party. He shut the door behind them and said, “You’re staying and thanking every single person who wants to congratulate you. You wanted this, remember.”

Hélène glared. Vasily smiled coldly.

“Two can play at this game, Elena.”

“You and I have two very different ideas of what a game is, Papa,” she said.

Vasily began to pace up and down the considerable length of the hallway. One of his more irritating habits.  “I’m sure,” he said. “I, for one, wouldn’t consider disrupting a campaign event with a fake pregnancy announcement a _game_.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “It isn’t fake,” she said calmly. “I _am_ pregnant.”

Vasily paused in mid-step and shot her a cold look. “Have it your way, then. I’m not the one you’re hurting.”

“This child is a gift from God, remember?”

“Of course,” he said coolly. “In that case, we may as well start planning for your upcoming nuptials. We’ll have to start a registry, first and foremost.”

Hélène blinked. “Pardon?”

“I already have a venue in mind,” he continued. “You’ll have to get married in the church, of course. Mrs. Mikhailovna can help you take care of the dress, but I’ll handle the caterers and everything else.”

“Pierre proposed _twenty_ minutes ago,” she snapped.

“Yes, well we need to be quick about it. You’ll have to get married before the pregnancy is visible. Within the month.” He paused. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“No,” she muttered.

“I wish I could say I was surprised.”

Before she could even open her mouth to respond, the door cracked open behind them and Pierre poked his head into the hallway, one hand braced on the frame. Hélène’s stomach dropped. She had almost forgotten about him. Her fiancé.

Christ. Pierre—her fiancé.

“Hélène, darling?” he said. His eyes went wide when he caught sight of Vasily. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Vasily sighed. “Nonsense, Pierre. I should head off now, anyway, let you two have some time to talk. What with all the exciting news.”

Hélène waited until his back was turned to her to glare daggers at him. Pierre stumbled into the hallway just as Vasily glided out, and with that, the door closed again with a quiet click and she was alone in the corridor with, admittedly, a slightly more tolerable person.

Pierre’s face had gone both very pale and very red all at once, somehow. His hands trembled as he pushed his glasses back up his nose and dabbed at his sweat-slick brow with a napkin. “I was looking for you.”

“Sorry,” she said. “My dad had me occupied.”

“That’s alright, but Jesus _Christ_ , Lena, why did you have to spring this on me now of all times? I thought you were on the pill. You _told_ me you were on the pill.”

“Pierre.”

“Do you even have any idea how big this is? What the hell are we gonna do? I’m not ready to be a father, I’m not even out of college, I—”

“Pierre.”

 “—won’t even be able to get a job to support you—”

“ _Pierre_.”

“—We can’t get married, for Pete’s sake, we’re not even—”

“Pierre, I’m not really pregnant,” she sighed.

“—old enough to legally drink and—wait… _what_?”

Hélène sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth, steeling her nerves. “I was fibbing. I was on the spot and I wanted to get a rise out of my dad and Buono and those Republicans so I made it up and the whole damn thing’s a lie.”

Pierre’s eyes widened further. “What?”

“It was a joke.”

“ _What_?”

“Pierre,” she said sharply, “are you gonna give me an answer other than ‘what’ this evening?”

“Oh my God,” he mumbled. “I don’t know whether this makes the whole thing better or worse.”

Hélène scoffed. “Better. Obviously.”

But this didn’t seem to reassure him, and if anything, he only looked even more nervous. “This isn’t a _joke_ , Hélène, this…this is bad. What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” He began to wring his hands. “Oh God, I _proposed_ to you! Are we gonna…ah, fuck, do we have to get married now?”

“Of course not,” she said coolly. “There’s no way my dad doesn’t cave first. He knows I’m lying, he just doesn’t want to look bad in front of his sycophants.”

Pierre seemed to relax a little at that. He collapsed onto the loveseat, running a trembling hand through his hair. She heard him quietly counting his breaths, inhaling and exhaling increasingly slowly. “And if he doesn’t cave first?”

“He will. He will, I promise,” said Hélène. “We have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just play along and things will go off without a hitch.”

“This is sick,” he said through his fingers. “My God, this is so twisted. Is this the sort of stuff your family does for fun?”

Hélène scowled and folded her arms across her chest. “This isn’t _fun_ , Pierre. It’s called getting even. There’s an overlap but they’re two very different things.”

“I don’t want to do this. I’m going to tell your father.”

He made a move for the door, but Hélène was faster, and she flew at him before he could even reach for the handle.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarled, her eyes flashing dangerously in that way that she knew he was so afraid of. “Pyotr Kirillovich, if you so much as _think_ about ruining this for me, I will make you wish you were never born.”

Pierre gulped, but even so he sat back down in his seat. “I don’t like this,” he repeated numbly.

“Oh, grow a spine, would you?”

He shook his head. “But this is bad, Hélène. This isn’t normal.” A pause, and then a look of horrified realization. “Fuck, what’s my mother going to think?”

“She won’t have to know. This will be over in a few days, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Lena…”

Hélène reached down and hauled him upright and began to make her way back to the door. “Let’s get back to this goddamn party,” she growled, steering him by the elbow. “And smile. You look so miserable when you’re anxious.”

* * *

 

Vasily always hired a reputable cleaning service after parties. That didn’t mean, however, that they were able to vacuum away every single patch of crumbs, mop away every drop of spilled champagne, collect each and every napkin that had fallen out of the overflowing garbage can.

Presently, Hélène had splayed herself out on the couch, where she was fiddling with a particularly stubborn dot of oyster sauce that had refused to wash out of one of the cushions. She wasn’t cleaning out of punishment—that was more Anatole’s forté—but it was soothing to at least feel productive.

Especially considering the circumstances.

And especially considering the present company.

Technically she hadn’t invited Fedya over. As was more often the case, he had invited himself inside without a word, only after checking to make sure that Vasily’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. Normally she wouldn’t have minded his company, would’ve enjoyed it even, but now the sound of the back door opening made her shoulders slump in dread.

Dear God. How was she going to explain this to Fedya?

His grin was infuriatingly smug. “So, I heard you made a big fuss as your dad’s party.”

Hélène stiffened. “Who told you about that?”

A shrug. “You just did.”

“Damn you,” she snarled.

Fedya smiled at her. “Stop being so predictable.”

“It was bad.”

“Worse than usual?”

She glared at him with her most threatening scowl, kicked her feet up on the armrest, and crossed her arms. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped, hoping that would be the end of that.

But it never was that easy with Fedya, and because he was nosy and obnoxious and a little too comfortable for his own good, he rolled his eyes and said, “All I want to know is why I just got an invitation to your engagement party.”

Hélène sucked in a deep breath. It had only been one day. How the hell did Vasily work that fast? “You got a _what_?”

“Well, technically my mom did,” he said. “Gave her a real shock when she opened the mailbox this morning.”

Hélène sighed. “My dad’s really pushing this one.”

“You don’t say. So, the invitation—”

“Is none of your damn business.”

“It was literally mailed to me. To my house. Where I live. Asking for an RSVP. From me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ on a stick,” she said, and bent over on herself with her face in her hands.

Fedya leaned back against the armrest. “Look, my mom’s been interrogating me for information that I don’t have all day. You can either tell me now, or she’s gonna drive over here and weasel it out of your dad over coffee.”

“Fedya, you’re giving me a headache that I really don’t need right now,” Hélène snapped.

He shrugged, tossing the card onto the coffee table. “Don’t you think that whatever this is is getting kind of out of hand?”

“He’s the one who pushed it this far. And you can blame Pierre for the whole wedding debacle in the first place.”

“And how is _dear_ Petrushka? Excited for the upcoming nuptials?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m guessing that’s a ‘no’.”

“Do you really think Pierre proposed to me in earnest?”

Fedya shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot of things I think nowadays are wrong. For example, I thought Anatole might have some clue about what the hell his sister’s been getting up to lately, but I guess—”

“You went to Anatole about this?”

“In my defense, you weren’t answering my texts.”

“You absolute jackass,” she said. “I can’t believe you.”

“If it helps, I didn’t get anything out of him. Either he’s a really good actor or he genuinely doesn’t know a thing.”

Hélène leaned her head against the backrest. “No,” she said glumly. “He really is just that dumb.”

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know. I’m fighting with Pierre.”

“Over the engagement?”

She sighed. “I think he’s really mad at me this time.”

“Come on, Lena, can you honestly blame him?”

“I can blame my dad,” she grumbled.

“Yeah, well that’s a common theme with you.”

“Shut up.”

“So how’d he do it?” said Fedya.

Hélène glared at him again. “What?”

“How’d your old man get Bezukhov to crack?”

“Who says it was my dad who got Pierre to propose?”

“So he _did_ propose,” he said, nodding sagely.

“What did you expect differently?”

Fedya shrugged. “I dunno. Wouldn’t put it past your dad to push for the shotgun wedding.”

Hélène’s face crumpled.

Fedya frowned and reached for her. “Lena?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, and pulled away from him. “Have you heard anything from Pierre? He hasn’t answered any of my texts.”

“Wonder why,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Could you do me a solid and talk to him?”

“Pierre?”

“Please?” Fedya raised his eyebrows and she sighed. “I know you don’t like him, but you like me. I don’t want him to be mad at me.”

“Lena…”

“Look,” she said, “if it helps, think of it as doing a favor for me, not him.”

“Doesn’t help much,” he grumbled.

“Come on, Fed. Think of all the times I’ve helped you out. All the favors.”

“Un-inviting me to that stupid ball doesn’t count as a favor.”

“Not _that_. What about—” Hélène snapped her fingers in the air as she racked her brains for ideas, “—oh! What about that time I convinced your mother that you had food poisoning after senior homecoming?”

Fedya scowled. “I shoulda known you’d hang that over my head. And voluntarily spending time with Bezukhov is still a big ask.”

“Bring him some booze and he’ll be like putty in your hands. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience.”

“What do you even want from him?”

“I just…” She took in a deep breath and raked her hands through her hair. “Just make sure he’s okay?”

Fedya pursed his lips. “Define ‘okay’.”

“I don’t know. I know he’s upset and I’m worried about him.” Fedya shot her a skeptical look and she glared at him. “I _care_ about him.”

“I’m not disputing that.”

“You’re being obtuse about it, either way.”

“Alright,” he said, holding up his hands in mock-surrender, “you’ve got me. I’ll go check on him, but don’t expect me to be sentimental or anything, okay? I still don’t like him.”

Hélène sighed and relaxed back against the couch. “Thank you,” she said.

“After this, we’re officially square for the homecoming thing, though.”

“Fair.”

“And prom. _And_ the Mrs. Mikhailovna thing, too.”

Hélène raised and eyebrow and fought down a smirk. “That’s pushing it a little, but I’ll concede those too.”

Fedya stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. She was grateful to see that he had bothered to slip off his shoes before walking inside the house.“I suppose I should be off, then,” he said, and took off down the hallway.

Hélène craned her neck over the backrest of the sofa. “Where are you going?”

“To pick up from Balaga. I’m not doing this sober.”

“Fair,” she said, and resumed her ministrations with the stain on the cushion.

* * *

 

_Knock knock._

Pierre had expected the postman. The landlord. The pizza delivery guy. Hell, his mother, even, on one of her ‘surprise visits’. He hadn’t expected to see Fedya Dolokhov standing in the doorway with a simpering grin and something bulky and square-shaped slung under his arm.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said, holding up what he assumed was case of beer, though it was difficult to see properly when his glasses were so filthy and his prescription was so out-of-date.

Pierre blinked, confused. “What are you doing here?”  

“No need to be so rude, Bezukhov,” he said coolly. “I’m throwing you a bachelor party.” He pushed past Pierre and settled on the couch, popping a can out of its casing. “No strippers, I’m afraid, but I’m here at your fiancée’s behest and I value my life.”

_Fiancée?_

“Oh! Hélène?”

Fedya snorted. “What, do you have more than one?”

Pierre glowered and locked the door behind him.

“So what exactly happened? I tried to get details from her, but she wouldn’t tell me _anything_.”

Pierre sighed, pushing up his glasses up his nose. “She was pissed off that her dad was supporting an anti-abortion candidate, so she told him that she was pregnant. In the middle of his campaign party. God, it sounds so much more ridiculous to say it out—”

“She’s _pregnant_?” Fedya choked on his beer, and all the color drained from his face. “You got her _pregnant_?”

“Of course not!” he said indignantly.  

“Then what—”

“It was a prank, okay?” he snapped. “A stupid prank that went way too far, and she didn’t even think of telling me what she was planning.”

Fedya chuckled despite himself. “I doubt she _planned_ this.”

“Well, she knew more about what was going on than I did, at any rate. I’m standing there, leaning against the wall just minding my own business—and I didn’t have to be there, mind you; this was me doing her a favor—and then out of nowhere she pulls this and suddenly all eyes are on me.”

Fedya raised his eyebrows, seemingly having recovered from his near-heart attack just moments ago. “So you, being the gentleman, proposed to her in front of everyone?” Pierre nodded miserably, and Fedya clapped him on the shoulder. “Not your wisest call, my friend.”  

“What the _fuck_ ,” Pierre groaned, He slumped back against the sofa. “She’s fun and everything, but then she goes and pulls stunts like this.” He eyed Fedya cautiously. “Has she always been this nuts?”

Fedya took a sip of his beer and pressed a can into Pierre’s hands. “It’s her dad. He always brings this out in her. Though I will admit, I don’t think she’s ever gone so far as to fake a pregnancy.”

“I get to be the first. Just my luck,” said Pierre, rubbing his brow.

“You know how fun she can be when she’s being impulsive. Are you really surprised that there’s a pendulum effect?”

“I honestly think she’s dead inside sometimes,”he muttered.  “Do you ever think that? Do you think she feels anything at all?”

Fedya looked mildly offended at that. “I think she feels too much of everything, honestly.”

“No _normal_ person could do this to someone else,” he snapped.

“I never said she was normal. Because she’s not. God knows that whole family is messed-up as fuck. But she’s not, like, a sociopath.”

“Then why would she do this?”

“Fuck if I know,” said Fedya, and took another swig of beer. “You somehow managed to convince a beautiful, smart girl that you’re worth her time. Sometimes terrible daddy issues are a bitter pill you’ve got to swallow with that.”

Pierre frowned. “Her dad seems fine. _Nice_ even.”

Fedya snorted like that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “‘ _Nice_ ’? Dude, her dad’s certifiable.”

“I know he has some old-school ideas, and his politics are a little more than questionable, but—”

“You know, when we were seventeen, he made her go to this ball thing to, like, introduce her to a bunch of other rich people.”

Pierre frowned. He never enjoyed being spoken over, but something in Fedya’s tone had gone quiet and hard, and it made him stop and listen. “Yeah, so?”

“He got her date to try to assault her. The asshole had her backed into a corner with a hand up her dress before anyone stopped him.”

Pierre’s eyes went wide. “Holy fuck.”

“Holy fuck indeed. I don’t think Vasily told the guy to hurt Lena in so many words,” Fedya added quickly. “But he told him that she was interested in him, and she’d play hard to get.”

“That’s disgusting,” he muttered. Something nauseous and revolting that wasn’t entirely to do with the fact that he had probably drank a little too much beer a little too quickly bloomed in his chest.

“So you get why she gets in these moods when her dad is around? Because I could tell you hundreds of stories of ways he’s fucked her over like that.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said quietly.

“I know you didn’t. Which is why I told you.”

Pierre stared blankly at the wall opposite him. “It’s still a dick move, though. What she did.”

Fedya shrugged. “No one’s ever said Lena was an angel.”

“So what should I do?”

Fedya snickered, and Pierre scowled. “Pray? For what it’s worth, I think you should go through with it.” Pierre opened his mouth to argue, but Fedya put up a hand to silence him. “Her dad is gonna back off. He’s been trying to find the right self-important jackass to marry her for years now. He isn’t gonna waste that Kuragin pedigree on you. Besides, I know you and Lena have been on thin ice for a while. If you go along with this, I promise she’ll be grateful.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I know her a lot better than you do.”

Pierre tilted his head with a confused look. “Why are you even helping me?”

Fedya shrugged again. “You’re pathetic. And I’d rather see your relationship implode on its own, to be honest.”

Pierre glared at him. “What are you talking about? We’re fine.”

Fedya snorted into his can of beer. “You’re bitching about her to someone you don’t even like. People in healthy relationships don’t do that.”

“I don’t have to agree with every stupid decision she drags me into to love her.”

“She does make an awful lot of stupid decisions,” he conceded. “But you do too. Putting up with her stupid decisions, for example.”

“‘Putting up’ with it?” Pierre snapped. “I’m not ‘putting up with’ any of it.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s getting married at twenty because my girlfriend’s dad bullied me into it,” Fedya said, and tossed back another gulp of beer. “You know, for such a giant, scary-looking dude, you’re really a massive teddy bear.”

Pierre wasn’t sure which part of that sentence he should have been more offended by. “Isn’t that what she calls you?” he said, hoping to redirect the conversation to something other than himself and his bad luck for once. “‘Teddy bear’?”

“That’s different. I, for one, actually have a spine, whereas I think you’ve devolved into an invertebrate.” He tilted his head. “Maybe that’s what she likes about you. She can walk all over you like a rug and you won’t even put up a word of protest.”

“That’s not true,” he said, but even so, his heart sank in recognition of Fedya’s words. Maybe it was true, then. But he wasn’t going to give Fedya the satisfaction of hearing him admit it aloud. “I’m not a pushover, I’m _accommodating_ ; there’s a difference.”

A harsh-sounding laugh tore out of Fedya’s throat. “Well, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Pierre snapped. “We love each other and everything’s fine. We’ll figure this out and things will go back to normal.”

“Normal?” Fedya raised an eyebrow. “Let’s be real, Petrushka. Nobody involved with that family is or ever will be normal.”

Pierre snorted, reaching for the whiskey. “What does that say about us?”

Fedya chuckled back. “That we’re both fucked.”

Pierre leaned his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard Fedya crack open another can of beer. “God, she can be such a bitch,” he spat.

Fedya passed a can to Pierre and held his up higher. “Let’s drink to that.”

“To Hélène’s bitchiness.”

“To your future wife. May she shit on your feelings for many years to come.”

Pierre looked as if he might burst into tears, but he drank anyway.

Fedya softened. “I’m only messing with you, man. Look, it’s not the end of the world. You act like you’re going through with the ceremony, you let old Papa Kuragin sweat it out for a few days, and then you’re home free.”

“Things never work out that simple for me,” he grumbled.

Fedya shrugged. “Hélène can seem… _irrational_ , let’s put it that way, but she knows Vasily. If she says he’s gonna back off, she’s probably right.”

“ _Probably_?”

“Of course, you don’t _have_ to go through with it,” he continued. “I guarantee she’ll never forgive you for it, but you can always tell her you can’t deal with her shit anymore and just walk away.”

Pierre blinked back tears. “I could never do that to her,” he hiccuped. “M-my dad walked out on my mom before she had me. I can’t be like that. Do you know how hard she had it, Fedya? She used to work herself to the bone just to scrape by.” He began to cry now, not just dainty tears but full-on heaving and sobbing. “I can’t leave her alone with the baby,” he gasped. “Lena needs me, now more than ever. I can’t be a deadbeat dad. I can’t do it, Fed, I gotta go through with—”

“Pierre,” said Fedya, furrowing his brow, “the baby isn’t real. You remember that, right? That’s…that’s kind of the whole point.”

Pierre froze as clarity dawned in his eyes. He stopped crying almost immediately.  

“Oh my God,” Fedya murmured. A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth upwards. “You have got to be shitting me.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Fedya tossed his head back and began to howl with laughter. The leftover beer in his can sloshed dangerously as he rocked back and forth, slapping at the ground. Pierre huffed and tried to sit up a little straighter.

“I’m too drunk for this,” he grumbled.

“And too fucking emotional,” Fedya chuckled. “Let’s drink to that, too.”

* * *

 

If Vasily had plans to back down from this whole thing, he was certainly taking his sweet time.

Pierre had expected his nerves to pay the consequences for his compliance, but strangely enough, he found that he was oddly calm about the situation. Even as he checked into the hotel room—all booked and paid for by Vasily, of course—he never lost his breath, his fingers never twitched nervously. It was as if all the anxiety and stress had melted away into a hypnotized, detached peace.

He wasn’t sure if that was something he should have been worrying about, but then he decided that he was through with worrying and that if he was finally relaxed, then that was good enough for him, dammit. He was back in Seattle, someone else was footing the bill, and most importantly, Hélène was in relatively good spirits. A rare eclipse of happy coincidences. Had it not been for the circumstances, he would have even wondered if his luck was finally beginning to turn out for the best.

Then either very late the night before or very early on the morning of the actual day of the wedding, he was woken up by the sound of someone knocking at his hotel door.

“I brought vodka,” Hélène said brightly.

“Huh?” he said eloquently.

Hélène shook the bottle back and forth as if in demonstration. “Vod-ka,” she said slowly. “Liquor. Alcohol. Booze. Your favorite thing in the world.”

And with that, she ducked under his arm, waltzed into the room, and plopped herself down on the sofa, dressed only in her pajamas and a pair of fuzzy slippers.

“It’s late,” said Pierre.

Hélène twisted the lid off the bottle with a mischievous grin. “That it is.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I haven’t had a bachelorette party,” she reminded him.

“Take that up with Fedya.”

She pouted and folded her arms across her chest. “You’re a total buzzkill, you know that?”

“ I’m not gonna get drunk with you the night before our _wedding_ , Lena.”

“You also said you weren’t getting married till you got your master’s, and we both saw how that turned out.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Still yours,” she murmured. “Yours, and my dad’s.”

Pierre had half a mind to snap at her with something sarcastic and equally as rude, but the last thing he wanted tonight was an argument, so he instead elected to drop the matter completely, close the door behind him, and shuffle over to join her on the edge of the bed.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said. “Do you really wanna be hungover tomorrow?”

Hélène shrugged. “Tomorrow is a day like any other day.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have your confidence,” he quipped.

“Hence the vodka.”

Pierre cocked his head, considering. Put like that, it didn’t sound like a bad idea. In fact, it was starting to sound something like a _good_ idea.

“Fine,” he said, reaching for the bottle. “To our last night of freedom?”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Hélène said. She curled into his side.

“Are you sure you still wanna drink?”

“Yeah. Won’t be able to sleep otherwise. Too nervous.”

“You’re nervous?”

“It’s gonna be fine,” she repeated. “But I want a shot.”

Pierre shook his head with a smile. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Says the man who’s turning down free booze.”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “You’ve convinced me.”

A few drinks later, Hélène had nuzzled herself under his arms, flopping her head against his chest like a ragdoll. Pierre never felt so large and ungainly as when she cuddled up to him like this. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and wished it hard enough, he could convince himself that all was right in the world and that he and Hélène were just a normal, happy couple, and that this debacle was just an awful daydream.

And then Hélène looked up at him through her eyelashes with a sleepy, lopsided grin, and that was all the convincing Pierre needed.  

“You need another shot,” she said. “You look too stressed.”

Pierre chuckled. “I’m always stressed. And I might need more than one if I’m going to catch up to you.”

Hélène rolled her eyes and half-heartedly swatted his shoulder. “Don’t get _smart_ with me, Bezukhov.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Or what?”

Hélène gave him a mischievous smile and shifted so that she was sitting on his lap. “Might have to get creative.”

Whether that was a threat or an offer was impossible to tell. Pierre decided it was probably the former, hoped it was the latter.

He rested his hands on her hips and cocked his head. “Oh?”

Hélène laughed, low and throaty, and played with the hem of his shirt. Pierre’s face went hot.

The latter, then.

Then she yawned again, and Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Sleepy?”

“Just a little.”

“Wanna go to bed?”

She frowned, nuzzling into his neck. “Too far. ’M tired.”

Pierre sighed and kissed the top of her head. “You want me to carry you, don’t you?” He felt her nod against his throat and wrapped his arms around her, picking her up. “You’re such a diva.”

“Mm, but you’re strong. And comfy.” She wriggled a little. “Like a pillow.”

Pierre snorted as he gently deposited her on the bed. “Is that a compliment?”

Hélène took his hand, yanking him down with surprising strength. Pierre tumbled onto the mattress and nearly rolled over her. “Yeah. You’re good to cuddle with.”

“Lena—”

“Come on,” she said, pouting. “It’s cold and I want to snuggle.”

“It’s August.”

“ _Pierre_.”

He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin. “Better?”

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”

Pierre sighed. “I’ve been mad at you.”

“Still?”

“All of this has been overwhelming. We haven’t even been dating that long.”

Hélène ran her hand over his bicep. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You just have to trust me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. This is a lot for anybody, Hélène. Aren’t you worried that this is gonna change things?”

“Honestly, Pierre, with everything else going on, that hasn’t been a priority.”

“Our relationship hasn’t been a priority?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I trust that we’ll come through this relatively unscathed.”

“That’s optimistic.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I be optimistic? We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

Pierre’s face was unreadable. Hélène frowned.

“Pierre?”

He lowered his eyes. “Sure, baby, we’re doing okay. We’ll get through this and then we’ll figure everything else out later.”

She pulled away from him. “What do we have to figure out?”

Pierre turned away from her. “Please, forget I said anything. You’re fine, we’re fine.”

“No, I want to talk about this. Do you think we’re in trouble?”

“Maybe a little?”

“Because of this?”

Pierre sighed. “I don’t think ‘this’ would have happened if we didn’t have problems. We just…we need to be better to each other.”

“Aren’t you happy?”

“No,” he said. “Not with this whole debacle.”

“Which is temporary—”

“But that doesn’t _matter_ , Lena. You still dragged me into it. Without stopping to think how I felt about it.”

Hélène’s face wilted into something heartbroken. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I wish it hadn’t gone this far.”

Pierre was taken aback by her words. She was _sorry_? Since when did Hélène Kuragina ever apologize for anything?

“You could still stop it,” he said, softening. “Just talk to your dad, call this off. No one would think any less of you.”

“I promise I won’t put you through this. My dad will back off.”

“But Lena—”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Pierre sighed. “You know I do.”

“Then trust that everything will be okay. Everything’s okay when it’s you and me, right?”

Pierre smiled at that, despite himself. “Yeah.”

“So we’ll be okay as long as we’re together. No matter what the future holds.”

“You are my future, Lena. You’ve always factored into my plans.”

Hélène allowed herself a drowsy smile. “Yeah?”

He took her hand, idly playing with her fingers, his face half-pressed in the pillow. “But I would have done this differently, you know.”

“Mhmm?”

“I would’ve proposed,” he said. “Properly, I mean. I would’ve taken you to a nice restaurant. Just the two of us. And gotten on one knee with a nice, fancy ring, and it would’ve been perfect.”

“Sounds nice,” she said. “And the wedding?”

“Cutesy little white wedding,” said Pierre, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Like, in a flower garden or something.”

Hélène nearly snorted. “But your allergies—”

“Okay, maybe not a garden. Maybe a beach. Or a meadow. Or something.”

“You’re _so_ lame.”

She felt him shrug against the bedsheets. “I thought it would be sweet.”

“It is,” she said, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’re sweet. Still lame, though.”

Pierre chuckled, pulling her in closer. He rubbed her back, absently playing with her hair until he felt her breathing even out. “Are you asleep?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“I should probably get going then,” Pierre said, pushing the covers back.

“Stay,” Hélène whined, and her hands reached out after him.

“I don’t think the bride and groom are supposed to sleep together the night before the wedding.”

She grinned mischievously. “We aren’t _really_ getting married, dummy.”

“I don’t think most priests would agree with that interpretation,” Pierre muttered. Even so, he laid back in bed and pulled the sheets over both of them.

“Night, Petya,” she said.

“Night, Lena. Love you.”

She didn’t say ‘I love you’ back. Pierre didn’t expect her to—she never had, probably never would with the way his luck was going. But the little smile that curled the corner of her mouth was response enough.

Hélène snuggled under his arms and the two of them drifted off into a hazy, drunken oblivion.

* * *

 

The bed was cold when she woke up. Hélène reached out on instinct, seeking Pierre’s warmth, but all she felt was the emptiness of the air and the rustling of the sheets.

With a tired groan, she stumbled out of bed and pressed her hands to her forehead. Her throat felt dry and sore, and her head was pounding.

Then her eyes flicked over to the bottle that she and Pierre had abandoned last night. They had put a dent in it, but it was still half-full. Hélène realized that this was the best thing that had happened to her all month, and she wasn’t sure whether that was hilarious or sad.

 _Both_ , she decided, and tipped back the bottle. The vodka burned her throat, but the pain was reassuring somehow. She felt pain, which must have meant that she was still alive.

Whether or not that was a good or bad thing, given the circumstances, was subject to debate. She grimaced and took another swig.

The corridors were a goddamn maze. Everywhere she looked was the same stretch of beige carpet, beige wallpaper, generic art. After a while and with a frustrated grunt, she whipped her phone out.

 **Lenka:** feddyyyy

 **Lenka:** my boy

 **Lenka:** my pal

 **Lenka:** i am very lost rn

 **Fedya:** where are you???

 **Lenka:** i dONT KNOW!!!1

 **Lenka:** thats the whole point of beign lost

 **Lenka:** dummy

 **Fedya:** jesus christ lena

 **Lenka:** dont be rude

 **Lenka:** pls help

 **Fedya:** are you still in the hotel?

 **Lenka:** i sure hope so

 **Lenka:** bc otherwise this is a pretty funny-looking street

 **Lenka:** i wanted to visit pierre but idk where my room is

 **Fedya:** dont move, okay?

A few minutes later, a very harried-looking Fedya rounded the corner of the hallway with a thermos in one hand and his phone in the other. He was dressed in a suit, which was unusual enough, and he had shaved, which was even weirder.

“Morning, Fed,” she slurred, listing against what she hoped was the door to her room. “You’re lookin’ good.”

She then attempted to wolf-whistle, but her lips weren’t exactly cooperating and all she could manage was a spit-filled raspberry.

Fedya sighed. “Lena, you need to get dressed. The cab’s coming in half an hour.”

“Spoilsport,” she said, but even so she allowed him to shepherd her back to her hotel room. He shoved her inside with a stern look and an even sterner, “Be ready in twenty minutes, max.”

Hélène turned to snap at him, but he had already shut the door behind her. It took an embarrassingly long time to stumble into her dress, even longer to do her makeup, but by the time she was finished she looked at least half-presentable.

Presentable enough for Vasily, at least. Which was what mattered. She was going to win, and she was going to look good while she did it.

Fedya opened the door impatiently. “Are you ready yet?”

“Knock first!”

He knocked but left the door wide open anyway. “Are you ready yet?”

Hélène stepped out into the hallway, standing as upright as she could in her heels, and did jazz hands with a dull, “Ta-da.”

His eyes widened as he took in her dress. “You look good.”

“This thing’s fucking _heavy_ ,” she muttered and kicked out at the hem. But she was already wobbly on her heels, and the kick almost sent her toppling over onto the side table by the doorway. Fedya caught her before she could hit the ground.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She giggled helplessly, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m getting _married_ , Fed!”

“Lena,” he said, frowning.

Hélène righted herself. “I’m good. I fixed it. I fixed it all.”

“Are you wasted?”

“Maybe a little,” she said, holding her thumb and pointer finger an inch apart in demonstration.

Fedya shook his head impatiently and shoved a thermos of something warm at her. “You’re a mess.”

She grunted, recoiling from the bitter smell. Black coffee. Fedya rolled his eyes as he curled her fingers around the thermos.

“How’d you know?”

“It’s my sixth sense. That, and you stink of vodka.”

Hélène began to giggle again, and the contents of the thermos sloshed audibly as she tipped back to lean against the wall. “You’re so _smart_ , Fedya.” She turned to the cleaning lady standing in the hallway. “My friend is so smart. He brought me coffee and—”

“Lena,” Fedya said, steering her into the corner of the room where she could hopefully cause less chaos, “you need to pull yourself together. Your dad’s already here. You can’t be piss-drunk when he sees you.”

Hélène frowned. Her eyes felt heavy. Sleep would be so nice.

“’M fine, Fed,” she slurred. “Fuck what he thinks.”

“Sober-you wouldn’t say that,” he sighed. “Jesus, Lena, what were you thinking?”

She gestured to her white dress. “What ’m I gonna do?”

“You’re gonna drink this,” Fedya said, gesturing to the coffee. “Maybe eat some bread and sober up before your dad sees you.”

Hélène crossed her arms. “Don’t wanna be sober.”

“Now you’re sounding like Anatole.” Fedya seemed to regret his words the second after they left his mouth and registered in Hélène’s mind with a look of fury. “Not that I know what he sounds like drunk, or any—”

Petulantly, as if an act of rebellion, she snatched the thermos from his hands and tossed down a gulp of coffee. It was hot, too hot, and it burned her tongue. She spat out her mouthful almost immediately.

“It’s still hot,” Fedya said mildly. “Thought you should know.”

“That would’ve been nice to know before, asshole,” she snapped.  

“It would help if you drank slowly. Instead of, like, chugging it.”

Hélène made a rude gesture with her hand and began to sip at the coffee.

“Okay, that’s good,” Fedya said. “Do you want something to eat?”

She shook her head. “Feel sick.”

“That’s what happens when you binge drink at nine in the morning,” Fedya muttered.

“God,” she said, pressing her hands to her face and not caring how it smudged her makeup, “when did my life become such a fucking trainwreck?”

“Hey, you’re gonna be fine. You always are.”

Hélène curled herself around Fedya’s arm, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I want Toto,” she mumbled.

“He’s not here, Lena.”

“Wanna talk to him.”

“Okay, I can get my phone and we can text him. But you need to eat something first.”

Hélène scowled at him. “Fine.”

The full thermos of coffee and a bagel later she was much steadier on her feet but the splitting headache and nausea hadn’t gone away. Fedya watched her carefully as they made their way to the hotel lobby. It was a miracle that she didn’t fall asleep standing on her feet in the elevator.

“Better?” he said.

“A bit. Still stumbly.”

“Do you still wanna text Anatole?”

“Please.”

“Okay.”

 **Feddy:** it’s lena

 **Feddy:** i miss you so mch

 **Feddy:** this isnt the same without you

 **Feddy:** you should be here

 **Blondie:** mazel tov lena

 **Blondie:** wish i was there

 **Blondie:** love you

 **Blondie:** can i finally meet this guy

 **Blondie:** OMG WAIT DO I GET A BROTHER-IN-LAW NOW

It took all her self-restraint not to burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” said Fedya. “Are you okay?”

“H-he’s such an _idiot_ ,” she blubbered. “I love him.”

Fedya looked mildly panicked. He leaned over to the table and snatched a fistful of napkins. “Do you want to go find a bathroom? Freshen up a little maybe?”

“I just want my Toto,” she said, almost sobbing as Fedya pathetically dabbed under her eyes where the mascara was beginning to run.

“He’s going to be home soon,” Fedya murmured. “You only have to wait a few more days until he’s back.”

Hélène sucked in several deep breaths, recollecting herself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“Are you okay?”

Hélène nodded, drawing her arms around herself.

“You don’t _have_ to do this, Lena,” Fedya said quietly.

“Shush,” she mumbled. “Gotta win.”

Fedya hung his head with an exasperated groan. “You’re gonna be the death of me, do you know that?”

Hélène laughed and sloppily kissed his cheek. “’F course.”

Fedya cast a quick glance over his shoulder and down the hallway. “Here comes Papa Kuragin,” he whispered. “I’d better scram. Can you handle yourself?”

“I can try,” she offered.

Fedya rolled his eyes and kissed her cheek. “Use small words so you don’t slur.”

Hélène clumsily swatted him. “Don’t be rude.”

Fedya winked at her and took off down the hallway, straightening his jacket as best as he could when it hung a good two or three sizes too large on him.

“Good morning,” Vasily said.

She whirled around at the sound of his voice, wobbling unsteadily before righting herself against the ledge of the table. “Hi, Papa.”

Vasily frowned as he took in her bloodshot eyes and smudged makeup. “Are you alright, Elena?”

Hélène gave him a tight smile. “Fine. Nervous.”

“You look sick. Have you been drinking?”

She almost laughed despite herself. “Of course not, Papa, I’m underaged.”

Vasily didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the matter any further. Hélène almost allowed herself a sigh of relief, but then his hand closed around her left wrist and yanked her arm wide.

“What is _that_?” he hissed, pointing at her inner arm.

Hélène winced. She had forgotten about the stylized lightbulb on her bicep. “A tattoo?”

He seemed almost too shocked to be angry. “When did you get a _tattoo_?”

“The summer after I graduated.”

She heard him swear under his breath in Russian and snatched her arm back. “Elena, what were you _thinking_? Can you remove it?”

“’S permanent,” she snapped. “Kinda the whole point of tattoos.”

She was mercifully spared from any further explanation when the door burst open with an ear-splitting _BANG_. In walked Fedya and—oh, dear God—her fiancé, who was currently being guided along by Fedya as if he were a seeing-eye dog.

Pierre didn’t seem to be in a much better state than she was. She recognized the symptoms of his hangover before the smell of alcohol on his breath even hit her, though he was admittedly making a valiant attempt to hide it. He looked unbelievably awkward and out-of-place with his tangled hair and his glasses askew and his suit that was two sizes too small. The whole scene was so bizarre and painful to watch that she found herself almost laughing in an awkward mix of sadism and pity.

 _My future husband_ , she thought miserably, resisting the urge to burst into hysterical tears.

“Pierre,” Vasily said, reaching out for a handshake. “It’s bad luck to see your bride before the ceremony.”

Pierre gave him a shaky smile. “Just wanted to check in one last time.” He clumsily embraced Hélène. “You could run,” he whispered into her ear. His voice was frantic, and his arms tightened around her fractionally. “Tell the priest you’re being forced into this and just _run_. You’re eighteen, for Christ’s sake; no priest is going to marry an eighteen-year-old.”

“We’re still fine,” she said stubbornly and forced her face into a bright smile.

“He isn’t going to stop this, Hélène,” Pierre hissed. “We’re supposed to get married in twenty minutes. If you don’t want to do this, say something _now_.”

“He’ll stop it,” Hélène said firmly.

“Hélène—”

“You said you trusted me last night. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Pierre sighed, pulling away from her with a meaningful look. “Okay, fine, I trust you.”

“Great,” she said, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. “We’ll see you at the church.”

* * *

 

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Vasily murmured. “Just admit that you were lying, apologize to the donors, and this all goes away.”

Not the words the average girl would expect to hear uttered by her father halfway down a church aisle at her wedding. And yet, there Hélène was, her arm looped through the crook of his elbow, praying to any deities that may have been not to trip over the hem of her dress.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sweetly.

“Stop playing stupid before you do something irreversible.”

They had slowed down to a snail’s pace. The church pews were pathetically empty—she couldn’t say she had expected anything different, given the short notice.

“Nothing’s irreversible, Papa,” she murmured. “Except bad publicity.”

Vasily looked as if he wanted to say something more, but they had already reached the altar. Hélène zoned out completely as the priest launched into his ektina.

Pierre kept his eyes trained on his feet the whole time. She could see him rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fists out of the corner of her eye. Counting his breaths, no doubt, in an effort to remain calm. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, but he still refused to look at her.

The kiss, when it came, was short, detached, unemotional. And just like that, Pierre and Hélène were husband and wife.

The rest of the ceremony spun by in an indecipherable blur until they finally marched out of the church in a daze.

“He didn’t stop it,” Hélène murmured.

Pierre bit his lip, turning away from her with a look that could have been either horror or disbelief but was very likely both. “No. He didn’t.”

“Congratulations,” Vasily said coolly, shaking Pierre’s hand. “I’m proud to call you my son-in-law, young man.”

Hélène stiffened. This was all wrong. Deeply, horribly wrong. And she realized with an awful sinking sensation that she had been had, and that Vasily had won. The thought made her blood boil with rage. For the first time in her life, she found herself struggling to keep a calm face.

“You wanted this,” she said quietly.

The bastard had the nerve to wink at her. “I just want to see my children happy, Elena.”

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. Pierre shuffled his feet awkwardly, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to run for the hills. Hélène didn’t blame him, but it didn’t lessen her anger either.

“It shows,” she said coldly. “Your actions really do speak louder than your words.”

“I thought this was what you wanted too, darling,” he said mildly.

Hélène opened her mouth to fire back, but before she could even get a word in edgewise Pierre stepped between them and said, “We should go. The cab will be waiting.”

“Very well,” said Vasily. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

Without another word, they took off into the street. Hélène barely made it to the cab before the tears came; ugly, wracking sobs that shook her whole body. She instinctively buried her face in Pierre’s shoulder, not even noticing how stiff he was until he violently pulled away from her. “Don’t touch me.”

A shockwave of hurt radiated through her, but she immediately buried it deep down beneath her anger. “Why the fuck not?”

“Why are you upset?” Pierre countered. “You got what you wanted.”

“Of course I didn’t _want_ this,” she spat.

Pierre threw up his hands in exasperation. “No one held a gun to your head and _made_ you do this, Hélène. You’re gonna have to learn to live with your own shitty decisions for once.” He sat back in his seat, folding his arms, and she turned away from him. “Maybe you’ll finally realize that there are consequences for your actions.”

“If you’re so miserable why did you stick around?” she snapped.

Pierre exploded. “Because for whatever reason, no matter how many times you screw me over, I can’t stop caring about you!”

Hélène coached her face into stony blankness and leaned back against the window. “That isn’t my problem.”

“Of course it’s not!” he snarled. “Nothing is ever your problem. Nothing is ever your fault. It’s always somebody or something else, isn’t it? God, I can’t believe I’ve put up with your hypocritical bullshit this long.”

“No one ever asked you to put up with anything, you fucking martyr.”

“You _always_ do! You asked me to lie to your father, you asked me to pretend you were pregnant, you asked me to _marry_ you!”

Hélène shot him a poisonous glare. “You were the one who proposed in the first place. Don’t you dare try to pin this on me, you prick.”

“What the fuck else was I _supposed_ to do?”

“I don’t know!” she snarled. “Why don’t you tell me, Pierre? Seeing as how _everything_ I say today is—”

“And here you go again with the guilt-tripping,” said Pierre. “Do you even hear how manipulative you sound?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

“Mature.”

“Says the one who _proposed_ on impulse.”

Pierre’s lip curled into a snarl. “Well, this may be your one shot,” he said. “If you weren’t forcing them, I can’t imagine anybody would want to marry you.”

Hélène’s expression became murderous. “You take that back.”

“Aren’t I just a lucky man?” he said cruelly, and gestured to her, with her rumpled dress and her makeup half-smudged with tears. “I get to wake up to _this_ every day for the rest of my goddamn life!”

Hélène was overcome with such a powerful sense of fury that she found herself unable to form words. She found her breath coming in short, sharp bursts that stung her chest with every inhale, and her shoulders heaved as she panted and her heart hammered madly against the inside of her ribcage.

Pierre seemed to soften seeing her distress. He frowned, reaching out to touch her knee. “What’s wrong?”

“I d-dunno, Pierre,” she sobbed. “Take a w-wild _fucking_ guess!”

“You’re being hysterical.”

“I think—” she sputtered between gasping breaths, “It’s my heart. Fuck, I think I-I’m having a fucking—a fucking h-heart attack. It won’t stop _pounding_.”

Pierre sighed. “I think you’re just having a panic attack, Hélène.”

She lunged towards him, fisting her hands in the lapels of his suit, and dragged his face down so that it was level with hers. “This is all y-your fault!”

“Hélène,” he said, infuriatingly calm, and _God_ , of all the times to be calm he had to choose _now_? “Hélène, listen. We’re going to do some breathing exercises.”

“I don’t n-need any fucking breath—breath—aw, _fuck_ —any breathing exercises!”

“In, two three, out, two three, in, two th—”

“Shut _up_ , Pierre!” she cried.

The driver caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “Are you kids alright back there?”

“Could we pull over?”

“Just keep driving, for God’s sake,” Hélène snapped.

“Pull over, please,” Pierre said calmly.

“Please, Pierre, not here,” she said. “Not in public.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “We’ll go to my hotel room.”

* * *

 

“Do you feel any better?”

Hélène nodded, drawing her arms around herself. She had let down her hair and scrubbed all of her makeup off. Pierre saw the wedding gown tossed over the back of a chair in the corner of the room, and he thanked God that his mother wasn’t there to see a nice, expensive dress scrunched up and thrown aside like that.

Hélène had changed into an old shirt of his and a pair of his boxers. It was a more attractive sight than he was willing to admit, and it threw him for a loop.

“Kind of.”

“Good,” he said, coughing to hide his blush. “I guess we should talk, then.”

She stiffened. “What about?”

Pierre hesitated for a moment. There was no delicate way to phrase this, no way to lessen the bluntness of what he wanted to say.

To hell with it, then.

“I think we should take a break,” he said carefully. “From each other.”

Hélène, never one to mince words, raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Are you saying you want to break up?”

Pierre floundered under her glare. If his face got any hotter, it may well have burst into flames. “Not exactly.”

Hélène sighed irritably. “Well, what do you want then?”

“I want a divorce.”

She snorted. “Fair enough.”

Pierre blinked. This, he realized with a darkly comedic laugh, had to have been the most amicable divorce request in history. “But after that, I need some time away from you.”

Hélène’s face fell slightly at that. “Pierre, this didn’t mean anything. We don’t need to act as if it did.”

“No, it did mean something. Not the wedding, not the fake-baby, it was how you reacted to it. How you treated me.”

“I thought we moved past this,” she said softly. “I thought that we were okay.”

He stared at her incredulously. “Because of what happened in the cab?” She nodded and he sighed and shook his head. “Hélène, I would have done that for anyone. That…it wasn’t anything special; it was just me being a decent human being. It doesn’t make anything you did better.”

“This isn’t all on me,” she said quietly. “Our other problems, the ones we had before this…this isn’t all my fault.”

“But that’s the _problem_!” Pierre snapped. “You only care about our problems when you can use them against me.” He took a deep breath, calming himself down. “You’re too much,” he murmured. “There’s too much of you and it’s overwhelming. And I love you. I just…I just need a break. For a little bit.”

“No,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

Hélène drew her arms around herself and pulled her knees up to her chin. Somehow she looked both childish and aged beyond her years all at once. “I’m not going to wait,” she said plainly. “If you walk out on me now, we’re through. I mean it.”

Pierre sighed. “Lena, we can’t go back to the way things were.”

“Why can’t we? We’re happy, this is actually _working_.” She frowned, and Pierre felt something in his chest tighten spasmodically. “Aren’t you happy?”

The tone of her voice made it clear that a ‘yes’ was the only acceptable answer. He wanted to argue back, he truly did, but there were some things you didn’t debate with Hélène on, no matter how reasonable or sensible your point was. It would only make her mad, and it would only make him miserable.

And after all, wasn’t he happy? He was dating a beautiful girl who cared about him. What more could he ask for? What more could her want?

“Of course I’m happy,” he said finally.

Hélène smiled, satisfied. “Good,” she said. “So we won’t discuss this anymore."

An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of Pierre’s stomach, but he fought it down. “Of course.”

Hélène kissed his cheek and shot him a radiant grin. “I’m glad, darling. Everything’s okay when it’s you and me, right?”

Pierre sighed, but gave her a tired smile all the same. “Of course, Lena.”

“We’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow,” she continued, “and register as a no-contest divorce. How does that sound?”

“Good,” he mumbled.

“This will all feel like a dream soon,” she said. “It’ll be like nothing never even happened.”

Pierre nodded cautiously. “And you think we can make this work?”

“I _know_ we can. You trust me, don’t you?”

Did he? Was he even prepared to ask himself that question?

Well, it was irrelevant now, so instead of floundering he answered with a quick, confident, “Of course I trust you.”

Hélène smiled and snuggled a little closer to him. “Then that settles it.”

Pierre tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling with a quiet exhale. The world hadn’t ended. The Sun would still come up in the morning and go down at night. And for now, for however long this lasted, he had Hélène.

Everything was perfectly fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We love comments and kudos and would sure as heck appreciate them!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos brighten our days!


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